Metamorphosis
by GoWithTheFlo20
Summary: What makes a pirate? What makes a person give up their country, give up their homes and the safety of society? What is the driving force that pushes people to live a life of blood, money and endless danger? Clara is going to find out the answers to these questions... Even if she doesn't want to. Silver/OC/Vane
1. A Bonny Girl

AN- just to let you know, this is the very first time I've tried my hand at an OC character. I know some OCs are very Mary sue, but I promise, I'll try my very best to stay way back from that line. That being said, my OC ISN'T just going to be either, the damsel in distress and having everyone save her because she's absolutely useless or great at everything, neither will she be just an add in and this story being nothing but regurgitation of Black sails plot, she will change certain things.

As for pairings, they will not be the main focus but it will be in there. Just because its how I like my stories. Expect Calico Jack to be one of the options, because he's my favourite character but I am up for anything you guys suggest. I'm actually really nervous how you guys are going to like this and my OC, nail biting ensues!

I hope you enjoy this chapter and please review, it let's me know I'm not wasting my time writing something no one reads :) -GoWithTheFlo20 _

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Clara, as a child was rambunctious and held a thirst for adventure unlike many had seen in the fairer sex. In her younger years, it was not an odd sight to see the curly ginger haired, skinny girl of the local baker running the streets with no qualms or worries, dressed in shirts to big and trousers often blotted with mud and grass stains, freckles dusted across a small button nose on an impish face. She made friends with the orphans who populated the street, getting into mischief that often left her being dragged by her shirt collar back to the bakery with red ears and a sound cuff up the back of the head for her behavior. Her mother would berate her, sometimes beg for her to be calm and act proper, but being only a child, with her head filled with dreams of dragons and great fights, she did not heed.

Many put it down to her lack of a father, being born out of wedlock and no man of the house to speak of, left her to derision of many lords, ladies and higher status-ed persons. But it also gave her a freedom she swallowed readily. No one expected any better from a bastard, or the poor bakers daughter. She could do what she liked and no one would bat an eye-lid. It was only when she was ten, having been herded back to the small, quaint bakery once more for lifting a peach out of an unloading cart, that guilt and worry really hit home. The very same day she found out about her missing father.

Her mother had said the usually spiel, apologized and promised that Clara would not do it again, even when all parties involved knew otherwise, but when the merchant left, her mother had plopped down on a unsteady stall in a flurry of flour soiled skirts, and burst out into rivets of tears. It took Clara by surprise. Her mother was always strong, poised and hardy. To see tears on her face would be like seeing the sky raining frogs. It just didn't happen. In her childish mind, strong people didn't cry, only years later, well past the age of ten did she realize why. Strong people hid their tears from the world, but they cried all the same.

That was the night she had learned her beginning... And to bury her dreams down for survival. Apparently, between wet sobs and sniffs from her mother, she learned Mary Summerfield was once engaged to an Apothecary owner. Her mother despised the match, the Apothecary owner being sullen, dreary and a stickler for the bible and rules. A young Mary was, according to her tale, a lot like her daughter Clara, filled with dreams and hopes that would never come to pass.

But Mary had a friend, and after a night of sneaking out and tankards of spiced rum, her and her friend did the deed. Months later, when Marys belly swelled and there was no hiding the pregnancy, the Apothecary owner called off the engagement, saying he would not raise another mans child and tie himself to a scarlet woman. Mary and her male friend, her mother never did tell her his full name, did not love each other, neither had pretended they had but they held a strong friendship, a friendship that didn't change despite the growing baby Mary housed.

And when the man found out, he being a part of the royal navy her mother told her, he stuck by Mary, not in marriage, but enough to give Clara his last name on her birth certificate, a signature, and her first name, apparently from his own mother. Then, the year she turned one, he just upped and left.

Her mother said he had lost someone he loved and could not handle it, could not see another day on English soil without the memory haunting him. Clara never knew where he went, or what became of him, Mary would always divert the questioning when the mood took Clara to ponder on the missing man. He was likely dead, or in jail Clara concluded.

When she had first heard the story, at the tender age of ten, her first thoughts were of herself, was she not enough? Did he not love her like the lost loved one? But age pushed those thoughts away, and soon she thought nothing of him but of her mother. If she thought she was strong before, she now knew Mary Summerfield was iron wrought.

She had kept Clara in a relative comfortable life, fed her, cleaned her, dressed her to the best of her ability, no invisible man was worth the diversion of those facts. She did not need him if she had her mother, she never would need him, Mary had taught her that, never lean on anyone, always trust yourself to pull through.

Clara grew up a lot that year, and even more in the following years, gone were her wanderings and play times. She instead helped at the bakery, more and more over the years as her mother grew pale and weak from some unknown ailment. One thing never left, her need for adventure, that churning want that flared up in her gut and seized her some nights, when she would question if this was all there was to life. She never let it show, couldn't with how fast her mother started going downhill at Claras eighteenth year.

Soon the paleness grew sallow, Mary had a wracking cough that seized her body and made her shoulders hunch permanently under the pressure, hankies often coming away from Marys mouth with crimson blood splattered on, starkly contrasted by the starched white clothe. Clara knew what was coming, but she didn't want to voice it, didn't want to give it the light of day, the chance to come alive and really happen. Mary held no such convictions.

Clara had just finished pushing the last of the loaves into the open stone stove, pushing them further into the fire with a burnt wooden stick, coughing and sneezing as smoke poured out from the hole and filled her lungs, when her mothers voice rang out croaky from the back room, their bedroom and as of late, her mothers permanent residence.

"Clara! Clara dear come here, we have much to discuss."

Clara grimaced hard when Marys sentence led to a bout of wet sounding coughing, but she schooled her features. Mary had been strong for Clara all these years, she could very well do the same for her loving mother. Looking around the small store, Clara untied the apron, smoothed down her scratchy work dress, hooked the apron on a skewed hook and made her way towards the back with light footsteps. The shop was empty, and would likely be until noon came and farmers, merchants, and hungry patrons came for luncheon.

Creaking open the flaking door, Clara peered in and saw her mother nestled in pillows and blankets, black hair splayed around her head like a halo. Her mother gave her a chapped lipped smile, teary eyes looking blearily at her. Clara remembered when they used to be a vivid green, now they looked ashen, like burnt grass. It was the little changes to her mother that hurt most. The small signs that just shouted at you how ill she was.

Stepping through the threshold of the doorway, she firmly shut the door closed behind her with a muted thud and steeled her spine. Strong, she would be strong. Painting a smile on her face that didn't quiet reach her eyes and adding a bounce to her step she did not have, Clara made her way over, pulling up a wonky chair to the bed.

Mary raised her hand shakily and Clara wasted no time in snatching up the limb and holding it between her own hands, trying so hard not to cringe or cry at the absolute coldness of her mothers fingers on her wrist. Mary was just chilly was all, even if the bright sun blazing through the window of the room told otherwise. Pulling one hand away, Clara pulled the the blankets up and over her mother. Only for Mary to flick her hand away with her free one.

"It is no use dearest, you and i know this. It wont be long now, i feel it in my bones as surely as it shows on my face."

Clara grasped her mothers hand once more and squeezed more then she intended to, her frustration and worry showing through her clenching fingers. She didn't want to hear these words, not from her mother and not from herself. Mary would get better, she had too, Clara did not know what she would do otherwise.

"Mother, Don't say things like that. You'll get well, i know it, it's just a fever, it'll pass soon and you'll go back to baking and I'll go back to running rampant and causing you trouble."

The chuckle from Mary was broken and harsh, once again ending in coughing. Clara snatched up a hanky from the night stand and pressed it to her mothers open and wheezing mouth. Pulling it away only when the coughing had passed, pushing back the tears when the clothe came away with so much blood the white hardly peaked through. Not wanting her mother to see, she dropped the hanky back onto the desk in record timing. Out of sight, out of mind. But she could still see the red in her peripheral vision, a blazing sign that would not leave her be no matter how hard she tried to push it away. In the end, she had to force herself not to look, not to give any mind to it, her neck ached with how stiff the muscles grew from her sheer determination not to turn around.

"You are anything but an idiot Clara, do not pretend to be so. You're such a bonnie lass, red hair like sunset, blue eyes that remind me of the shining sea. And look how tall you've grown, an envy of many women to be sure and treasure to many men. You, you are my greatest achievement in this life, my little flower in the weed garden. Do not ever change, You hear me? Never let anyone push you down."

Mary wiggled her hand free from Claras tight grasp, running her fingers through Claras long and loose curls. Clara fought even harder to keep the tears at bay, why did this sound like a goodbye?

"But i digress. Soon, i will leave this world, and i know better than anyone what it is like growing up without a husband in these parts of London. I don't want that for you, anything but that. So i have been mailing your second removed cousin, Edward Livingston. He lives in Boston now don't you know? I hear the Americas are wonderful, truly peaceful. A good place for someone like you to grow fully, settle down and have a family of your own."

Clara bit back the retort of not wanting another family, not wanting to settle down, now was not the time to voice such opinions. She was happy with her mother and the small bakery, even if that traitorous voice in the back of her mind screamed otherwise.

"Mother, what are you getting at? Maybe you should sleep, rest, gain your strength back."

Mary cut her off with a glare that could wither stone and just for a moment, Clara was happy. There still was a piece of her old mother, her strong mother deep in there, no matter if her ire was aimed at her, it was a good thing to see.

"I have rested enough. Sleep will do no good... Not anymore. It's already settled, the Captains paid and spoken for, your money stored well. Yes, all there is need of is for you to pack. Tonight at six sharp, you will be down at the main harbor. Find Captain Ludford, he'll be expecting you. You will board his ship, and he will take you to another port, There you will board the Scarborough, the Captain will take you to Boston where your cousin is waiting for you. It will be a long journey, but it was the best i could do. I do not wish for you to see me fade away anymore than you already have."

Clara bolted out of her chair, anger searing her veins. No matter her temper, she could not bring herself to say the dreaded word of death. But she did flush and and splutter her outrage.

"You're sending me away? Now, when you need me most? Mother, you can't... You're not going to di-... You can't do this. My life is here, all I've ever known is here, surely you can't be serious? No, i wont do it!"

Marys glare was back tenfold, but was this time matched with Claras own.

"I'm dying Clara. It's okay to say that, it's fact, i don't have long and will you really deny me my last wish, on what is likely to be my deathbed? No, you will do this, even if i have to get out of this bed and drag you there myself. You'll be safer in Boston, happier too, that's all I've ever wanted for you. Please, for once listen to me and do as i say. This will be the last thing i ask, do not deny me it."

And Claras anger washed away like the tide receded. It was one thing to think it, but to hear her mother say it made it too real. Mary Summerfield was dying, and soon Clara would be on her own in the world. Finally the tears fell as Clara sagged back into the chair, skirts crumpling in disarray, hand shaking violently as she futilely swiped at the tears running down her freckled cheeks. Her hand was pulled away from its harsh scrubbing by Mary, a gentle smile on her face and her own tears glistening in her eyes. Even on her deathbed, Mary was so stubborn Clara knew the tears would never fall, such was her mothers character.

"Please Clara, do not cry. Not for me and not for a life well lived. I had this bakery, i had friends and most importantly i had you, i can rest easy with my lot in life. Now promise me, promise me you will go pack your bags and leave on this ship."

Clara struggled to regain her composure, but surely no one could blame her for this once. The only woman she had ever known, the only person not to sneer or make comments that often included bastard, apart from the orphans, was dying. Her mother was dying and the world would be a grayer place without her. There was nothing she could do to stop this, in that single moment, Clara had never felt such helplessness.

"I promise."

Marys hand left her own and ventured to her face, running the cold palm over Claras cheek, thumb running back and forth soothingly over the pale skin.

"Go, pack. Just remember, always be strong. And never, ever change. Always be you and you'll get by, i know it... My beautiful, bonnie Clara Flint


	2. Cannon Fire

AN- To TheLadyAranel, I thoroughly enjoyed your review, and I'm incredibly glad you liked It so much. First I just want to say about the birth certificate, you are completely right, low born people would not have had one, most only having been recorded on Tax registers at the time. But for the sake of the story, I bent history a little. I literally couldn't move on with the story without it being put in there, so to anyone who was bothered by It, I'm sorry but it is what it is. I just don't see Flint magically knowing it's his daughter without any proof to show for it, and what better proof than his own signature? And thank you for pointing out the I's, for some reason I always just blow past them when I'm proof reading, no idea why, but from now on I will keep an eye out for them.

So because you were the first person to review, and said review gave me good, fuzzy feelings that made me want to carry on, and stopped me from biting my nails in worry! This chapters dedicated to you! I hope you enjoy!

And to everyone else, the same goes for you.

P.S If you have the time, please drop a review, just so I know I'm not heading down the wrong path and make my fingers type faster. ;) -GowithTheFlo20 _

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The first month aboard Captain Ludfords ship left Clara with a sour taste in her mouth from un-met expectations, and a deep wish of never having to step foot on another boat in her life. She would have liked to tell people she took to sea travel like a hawk to flight, that she spent her days on the top deck, waves gently crashing against the hull, fluffy clouds passing over head lazily. But that would have been a bold face lie, one any ship mate could have disputed.

One of the cabin boys, a Macfarlen if she recalled correctly, she was never any good at remembering names, had told her she just needed to grow into her sea legs, give it time and she would be as sturdy as any sailor on this ship. But at the time, being curled over a chamber pot, throwing what little she could get down up, which mostly consisted of brined fish and cheeses, made her think he was either delusional, or as bad of a liar as she was. No, that first horrid month, Clara Flint was sea sick, incredibly sea sick.

Add that to the fact that Clara knew, somewhere behind them way past the now empty horizon, back in good ol' England, her mother was dying alone, could have already died with no one there to hold her hand, to ease her pain, left Clara with very little to enjoy on her first journey outside of England. It colored everything with a thick, well painted layer of sadness.

Adventure, the type she had dreamed of since she barely reached her mothers knee, didn't seem so golden, or as important as it did back then in the light of such events. If only it could have happened in different circumstances, preferably with Mary beside her. But wishing was for children, and Clara had come to the heartbreaking realization that life had a habit of stomping out childhood qualities when one grew up. The world, it seemed, took no prisoners.

The second month was marginally better than the first. The sickness that had grabbed Clara so tightly had lessened its hold and Clara was able to get around more as the month grew on, the sea sickness becoming nothing more than a distant memory Clara didn't waste her time reflecting on. Mary still haunted her, but Clara managed to push it back to the recess of her mind with quiet a bit of force, until she was left with nothing but a hum of something missing, a type of sadness that came from not having something you always had before. Mary wouldn't want her dwelling on things better left alone, things she could not change. Mary Summerfield wanted her to start fresh, to be happy, and as an ode to the loving woman, she would do just that.

On her third month upon the sea, she was able to corner and talk to the ever allusive Captain Ludford. He greeted her with smiles and grace, but she would never forget his first reaction to seeing her on the harbor, tatty bags at her feet, back in England. He had seemed utterly surprised she had even existed. Clara managed to weasel out the basics of his surprise from him, but it was obvious to anyone who had eyes, by the way his darted at certain questions and how he would twiddle his fingers, that he was leaving things out. But Clara didn't push, not because she didn't want to, because when something set into Claras mind she often finished it with a stubbornness that could rival a charging bull, but because he was simply too jumpy to get anything out of.

Captain Ludford was a family friend of Marys. A really close family friend according to what she had gathered, they knew each other since toddler-hood. Mary had even catered his fathers funeral, but when the time came for payment, Mary had objected to any money the Ludfords had tried to give over, instead only asking for a favor, one she would cash in when the time was right. As friends, Captain Ludford had heartily agreed to her obscure request. That was fourteen, nearly fifteen years ago, which would have made Clara only three years old. Apparently the favor was eventually cashed in, fourteen years later when an extremely ill Mary had asked him to ferry Clara to port Royal on his next voyage.

It was becoming more and more like a puzzle, and Clara was missing a lot of the pieces. It just didn't add up. How had Mary known Clara would need sending away so long ago? She couldn't have known she was ill, from what Clara understood, the illness that took her mother was fast acting, deadly, and with no known cure to the disease. No, even all those years ago Mary knew something, something that would end up with Clara having to leave England, regardless of anything else.

Marys illness played no part in the grand scheme of things, Clara realized. This was just an eventuality, not a quick decision made by a dying and desperate woman. Mary had always backed Claras corner, always protected her the best she could, Clara knew that better than anyone. So if Mary knew she would end up sending Clara away, then why now, why this exact time? The only conclusion Clara could draw was Mary was once again protecting her. With Mary gone, or going, something would have happened, something bad enough that her mothers only choice was to send her away.

What that something was, Clara could not tell you. But it did cause her headaches like no others when Clara tried to think it out, un-tangle the long strings of info, only to realize it was useless, it was all just a giant knotted ball of unanswered questions. If one thing bothered Clara the most, it was not knowing. It grated on her very being, gave her headaches and left her with a queasy stomach that had nothing to do with the sea sickness. But Mary had never led her wrong, even if she had to push and drag Clara down the right path, that fact remained. So just like her mothers death, or immanent one, she would push it back, no matter how unsettled it made her to do so.

Soon, but not soon enough in Claras opinion, she was halfway through her fourth month of her journey, and things that morning were looking up. The sun was blazing away in a clear sky, the ocean taking on a glittering blue hue, one Clara was not used to seeing but found breathtakingly beautiful. She was so used to the Thames, to the English sea, a mirage of dull blues and mossy greens. The sky more often than not a dreary gray from rain clouds that were about to let loose on the towns and villagers. Yes London was beautiful... If you only visited the right parts. The parts where ladies, lords and courtiers called home. Those were definitely not Claras frequented spots or haunting.

Clara was perched on a bench on the top deck, well, what she believed to be a bench but she was sure a ship mate, or anyone who had any lick of knowledge about boats would tell her it was something else entirely. She was enjoying the salty breeze and sea spray ruffling through her hair, head turned up to the endless sky. She licked her lips every now and again, enjoying the taste of salt that it gave her. With the sea sickness truly gone, she could get used to this type of travel all to easily.

She was dressed in a thin cotton shirt, one surely made for a man, or with her size a boy on the cusp of manhood, woolen trousers tucked into well worn leather boots. She would have normally only worn this type of clothing in the safety of her home, where she could afford to look and feel comfortable. But after she had first arrived, tripped up and down the stairs multiple times due to her long skirts, grazing her knees in the process, got said skirts tangled and knotted up in the ropes holding the sails straight, a ship mate having to leave his duties to help set her free, no one, even the Captain, could or would complain about her choice of a attire.

It was a running joke among the crew, put Clara in skirts and disaster soon followed, skirts plus Clara equaled bad omen in their eyes. She didn't rebuke the joke, not if it let her get away with wearing what made her most comfortable in her own skin. No scratchy wool dresses she hardly wore, no having to cross her ankles when she sat, and no worrying about going up or down stairs or what people would see if the wind blew just right. In Claras mind, it was a win-win for everyone involved.

She was minding her own business, enjoying the glorious weather and freedom from baking, hot stoves and pedantic customers, when someone behind her tapped her shoulder in a quick procession of pokes. Huffing in agitation of being brought out of her 'me time', she turned around, curly hair billowing out from the breeze that was slowly picking up. She expected Macfarlen, he had a habit of sneaking up behind her, but she was greeted with someone completely new.

He had black hair that curled much the same as hers. His tanned skin had a sheen of sweat he most likely acquired from the sun or hard work, or equal measures of both. His blue jacket was scruffy and torn at the cuffs. His eyes were blue, but a shade Clara had not seen before, where hers were a sea blue, much like the sea they were on now, his were much lighter, more like the sky than the sea. She didn't know whether it was a trick of the light, or his tanned skin setting them off, but they were more than a little startling.

"Where's Macfarlen?"

Clara hid her grimace well, she would put it down to his eyes that made her loose her eloquence so easily. Plus, who could condemn her question? The only crew mate to really interact with her was Macfarlen. Sure the others said their hellos and goodbyes when needed, but that was about how far conversation went with them. Now some stranger pops out of nowhere, grinning like a madman, dimples and all. The first lesson you are taught as a child is to stay away from strangers, especially if they sneak up on you. And something about his too bright of a smile, put her off like nothing else. This man could not be trusted.

"Macfarlen? There's no Macfarlen on this ship..."

Well, damn. Clara was sure she had remembered his name correctly this time, it looked like she had not after all. She knew it began with a Mac, but Mac what? She had this problem in the bakery too, always giving out the wrong orders to the wrong customers. It really wasn't her fault if she couldn't be bothered to remember names of people she did not care fore, who held no importance in her life. They forgot hers plenty enough, some even reverting to calling her bastard girl, or her favorite, just bastard. Names only mattered when the person themselves did.

"Tall, blonde, with a missing front tooth, scar crossing over his left eyebrow. That Macfarlen?"

The man had the audacity of laughing in her face, at her expense, he didn't even try to hide it. Her hand clenched at her side, wanting to take a swing at the laughing man. Clara managed to squelch down that urge pretty fast. The Captain may have put up with her clothes, her un-ending questions and her ever sarcastic responses, but she highly doubted he would do well with her attacking one of his crew. One step too far, Clara thought. She had thick skin, a little laughter shouldn't bother her so much.

"Ah, Mccaffer. You mean Mccaffer. He's been called to duty. There seems to be a ship approaching, Captains not sure whether it's a friend or foe. He wants me to take you bellow deck, for your own safety of course. Who knows what will happen if it's the latter sort of ship."

Clara knew what he was doing. Stalling over his words, drawing some out and saying them with a dramatic flare and twist of his wrist. He was trying to frighten her. Clara wasn't frightened easily and it would take alot more than a grinning man and a few words to bring that emotion out of her. Getting up from her seat, she glared at the man, not willing to let him get the better of her.

"Well, lets go talk to the Captain shall we? Mister...?"

The man shrugged his shoulders, smile still stretched across his face. Clara wondered if it was permanently there, if the wind was so strong the night before that it glues his face like that. Or if with one good hit, it would go away? Clara was left handed, and many people didn't expect a south paw punch, she could take him by surprise if the need arose. Ah, there was that urge to lash out with her fists again, but this time it was harder to stomp down. Especially knowing he was trying to rile her up on purpose... Bloody git.

"John. John Silver my lady. You'll remember that one surely?"

Claras teeth ground together before smoothing her facial expression over. Pulling her own smile to her face, she walked past him and to the stairs that led to the main deck, which led to the hulls deck of the ship. The Captain would be there if an unknown ship was actually spotted, and this wasn't just one big joke on her. Halting at the top of the stairs, hand poised over polished banister, she tuned to face John once more, smile just as bright as his. Two could play at this game.

"I'm afraid I'm no lady, just plain ol' Clara Flint. Now are you coming or staying here? We don't have much time Jeffrey."

Clara got her desired reaction, his smile fractured and he looked bewilderingly at her. It only made her own smile more real and prominent. Got you, she thought. Served him right, plus, in a certain light the name Jeffrey fit him just fine.

"John... My names John."

He said the words slowly, pronunciation drawn out and each syllable perfectly spoken, as if he was coaxing a wild animal or talking to a small babe that was teething. Clara lifted her hand away from the banister and waved it dismissively in front of her face, like she was blowing away his confusion.

"Yes, I know your names Jeffrey. I'm not deaf, now are you coming or not? Tick tock."

Realization set in, the grin was back and his eyes sparkled merrily, as if she had offered him a challenge. He walked over to her with quick strides, both descending the stairs and making their way across the deck, dodging, ducking and sliding out of the way from roaming crew mates, who all looked to be too busy for this whole thing to be a joke.

Upon the sight, Clara subconsciously picked up speed, making John do the same from a few feet behind her. Just as she reached the top step to the hulls deck, having taken the steps two at a time, she saw Captain Ludford and his closest crew members surrounding him like a flock of sheep, Clara half expected one of them to Baa at her. Captain Ludfords dark blue coat had been taken off, laying slung over the railing of the deck, brass spyglass pressed to his right eye as he looked out into the vast sea, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows and waist coat buttons undone. Taking cautious steps, Clara walked over, turner her gaze in the direction Captain Ludford was so adamantly watching.

A ship, there was no doubt in that, she could see it even without the aid of a spyglass, was cutting its way across the gentle waves. It was big, maybe bigger than this very ship. The sails were the normal white cream, the wood painted like any other ship. There was nothing worrying about it, none what-so-ever... Until Clara saw it and felt her spine and limbs stiffen without command.

Behind the ship, definitely not a sail, something black was dancing and twirling in the wind behind the ship. The wind either not being strong enough, or not in their favor of seeing exactly what was printed on the flag. But it didn't change what was right in front of their faces, gave no space to argue. The unknown ship was sailing under the black. That meant only one thing, and even in her limited knowledge of sea travel, or the goings on of the sea in general, she knew what it meant. Everyone of them knew what it meant. Pirates. A pirate ship was heading straight for them.

"Shit."

Clara had no other word that fit the situations she found herself in, breaking out of her stupor, Clara dashed over to the Captain, pushing her way past any crew mate who found themselves in her path, leaving John where he was. Running to the railing, right of the Captain, she came to a sudden stop, bumping a knee on the wooden railing and hands reaching out to catch herself on the bar of wood running across, knuckles white from the pressure of her grip. Claras hair blew out and into her face from the sudden stop of movement, the increasing wind not helping any. Without much care for the locks, she roughly pushed them back, still eyeing the ship that was now turning directly towards them.

The Captain lowered his spyglass, giving a startled glance at her sudden appearance at his side. He turned around and gave a half haggard, half angry glare at John Silver.

"I thought I told you to get her bellow deck, not bring her here!"

Clara wasn't listening, still transfixed on the ship that was getting closer every second they wasted, but while the Captain was distracted in berating John, Clara snatched the spyglass from his loose hand, bringing it up to her own eye, trying to get a good look at the flag the other ship was flying.

If they could find out what flag it was, what was printed on the black clothe, they would know which pirate they were to face. Macfa-, no, Mccaffer had told her that much. When the mood took him to talk, it was hard to stop the older man. He would beguile her with sailors tales of mermaids, of hidden treasures, and his favorite, the tales of pirates. How each one was as blood thirsty as the last, how they had their own flags and motifs, named their own ships... And how they killed, plundered and burned down any ship they came across. One thing was the same through the many tales, you wouldn't want to meet any one of them on the open ocean.

A feeling crawled up from the depths of Claras stomach, edging up her throat and squeezing like a voice. Clara was anything but a liar, and was big enough to admit, at least to herself, that yes, now she felt fear. How could she not when the proof was in front of her own eyes? Clara shook the feeling off fiercely. She could be scared, anyone sane would be in her shoes, but she would not let that influence her decision or effect her in any way. Getting scared would do her no good, not now with a pirate ship of all things gunning for them. She would face the problems first, her emotions and fears can come later, hopefully, if luck was on her side, when this was all behind her.

Then, as if god was for once on her side, the wind picked up even more, blowing out the flag for her to see. Between the fluttering and folds of the flags fabric, she could see a skeleton man, large cutlass in one hand and an hour glass in the other. The message was clear to anyone who gazed upon the flag. They didn't have much time before death was upon them. Claras hand flopped to her side, taking the spyglass with it. Finally the Captains attention was back on her, he must have seen her dazed expression from the corner of her eye.

"Clara? Clara?! Did you see the flag? Tell me girl, our lives may depend upon it!"

The Captains hands dug into her shoulders, spinning her around to face him and shaking her violently. Clara blinked wearily as she snapped back to the present and not off wondering the future her mind had conjured up, which included things Clara hoped wouldn't come to pass. Breathing heavily, heart pounding as she tried to calm down, she had to repeatedly mentally tell herself fright can, and will come later but now she had to have her head squarely on her shoulders and not off in the clouds. Steeling herself, she frantically nodded to the flushed Captain, curls bouncing as she did so.

"I did. It's a skeleton, standing tall, holding both a cutlass and an hour glass."

The Captain pulled his hands away from her, stepping back so fast he nearly crumbled to the floor, looking and acting as if she had physically burned him. His eyes took on a frantic gleam, and at the sight, Claras heart some how found a way to beat even faster. Could a heartbeat break ribs? Because Claras heart felt like it could do just that if it didn't slow down soon.

"The Walrus. Shit! It's Captain Fl-"

He cut himself off, managing to reel in his emotions with a tug on his collar and the straightening of his wrinkled shirt. He eyed her, speculatively, with more than a dash of worry flittering across his eyes. Captain Ludford waved John Silver over with a hurried movement of his arm. His voice even, even if his eyes portrayed something else.

"John, take Clara to the bottom cabin, the cooks holding will do. Keep her hidden, no matter what you hear, what you see, or what other people say, that's your job. Keep her hidden and keep her close. If anyone of my crew argues, tell them it's the captains orders. And by the grace of god lad, get to my cabin, in the top draw of the right of my desk is Claras birth certificate. Take it, keep it hidden, show no one. You hear me? No one! I'll be damned if i let Mary down now of all times... What are you doing? GO!"

Clara was flustered, scared, and truly confused. She put up no fight when John Silver snatched up her arm, dragging her away and down steps, through throngs of frantic men. Funny enough, all she could really focus on was her birth certificate and why the Captain was so determined to hide it.. And her. Surely they had bigger things to face? Like, say, pirates out for blood and gold!

After learning of Claras birth, after telling her his own story of her mother, he had asked about her father. She told him what she could, she did not know the man, that he only stuck around long enough to see her first birthday, sign her birth certificate and then was gone like a fox into the night, that he used to be a part of the Navy too. He had asked if she still had her birth certificate, and when she had told him yes, Mary had practically forced her to pack it with her things, she had shown it him.

He had held it tightly in his hands, reading and re-reading the words printed and written on the slip of paper. He even went to the trouble of going to a window, holding it up to the sun, until the thin paper was partially transparent, and read the words again.

He looked ashen, almost shaken by what he had found, but Clara had put it down to her being a bastard. It wouldn't have been the first time she had gotten that reaction from her birth status. When she had gone to take it back, before her fingers could grab the paper, he had hastily folded it, shoved it into his inner coats pocket and gave her a shaky smile. He told her he might need it when they pulled into port, if anyone questioned or needed proof of who she was and not end up being put down as a stowaway.

"It's not here!"

And like a pebble breaking threw a glass window, Clara came back to reality with a crash and a jolt. Pushing away the memories that would not help their predicament, she rushed over to John, joining him in scavenging through papers, books and draws. Nearly giving up hope, her eyes were drawn to the desk, and with a startling clarity, she bent down, pulled the right top draw all the way out, and dropped it onto the plush carpet with a loud thunk. Shoving her arm into the dark hole that the draw once rested in, she turned her palm upwards and felt up the underside of the desk, grinning widely when her finger tips brushed paper.

"I got it John!"

Ripping the paper free, Clara unfolded it, and sure enough her birth certificate stared back. But why had the Captain waxed it onto the underside of his desk? Clara flung the question from her mind, they needed to get to the cooks holding and fast, she needed her head in the game and that would be the last time she let it wonder off with useless questions. Folding up the paper, Clara pushed it deeply into the pocket of her trousers. Standing once more, she made for the door of the Captains cabin, John not far behind.

Once again in the mayhem that the ship and crew had become, the two managed to get to the cooks holding in record timing, the lower they went, the less people blocking their way. Skidding into the room, John bent over to the side of the door, lifting up a large, heavy plank of dark wood, John Silver slid it across the door, locking it into the latches and helping barricade themselves inside.

He dusted his hands off, grinning, he turned around, obviously about to say something he believed would be witty, when the sound of cannon rang through the air. The ship lunged violently, smoke filtering in little plumes from the door crack. Clara didn't see John, too busy with being sent flying through the air, crashing harshly into a stack of crates, making her lungs give up the air they held. Clara sagged to the floor in a heap of limbs, aching and dizzy, but thankfully whole and not bleeding.

Rolling over, she came to her side and pushed herself up. Looking up to the ceiling, only held up by her hands, legs bent awkwardly. Now that the first cannon fire had gone off, it seemed there would be no stopping to the loud noise now, Claras ears rang from the sheer force of it. A hand came into her vision, looking over she spotted John Silver. Clara ignored his hand, heaving herself up onto her own feet, stumbling slightly before she managed to balance herself. She did after all still had her pride, and it had already taken a beating today.

"Alright there?"

Clara gave a short nod, swallowing thickly at the noise coming from the upper decks, from the boom of the cannon, from the ship mates, from the roaring sound of wood being torn apart. It was like an orchestra of every noise Clara didn't want to hear.

"Do you think we can out fight them... The pirates I mean?"

John looked into her eyes, not smiling, and as odd as it sounded, his seriousness displaced her more than his jovial air did. A vicious bang rang out from above them, drawing both of their gazes to the ceiling.

"Do you want a pretty lie, or the truth?"

Claras eyes flickered to John before they were brought back to the ceiling. She swore she just heard someone screaming out in pain. Clara knew the truth of what would happen right then and there. They were out gunned, out manned and out maneuvered. She didn't need it reinforced by John Silver. So she did what she did best in any tough situation, she plastered on a false smile and joked the anxiety and worry away.

"A pretty lie sounds great about now."

John grinned at her, but she could tell it was as true as her own. Maybe they did have something in common after all. Another shout and boom rang out, but even over all of the noise, she could hear Johns words as clear as church bells ringing out for mass.

"We'll be perfectly fine." _

* * *

Next chapter : A family reunion like no other.

Chapter notes : I just want to explain Captain Ludfords reaction to Claras birth certificate. The way I see it, Flints story would be wide spread in the Navy. He was a lieutenant who defected from the royal Navy and became a notorious pirate, the very same pirates they were fighting. It wouldn't be that hard to imagine that that sort of gossip would flood through the Navy at the time, Flint would have been classed as a traitor to England itself. A sort of beware tale passed down from higher ups to the new recruits. Plus with Captain Ludford being close friends with Mary, and knowing that she knew James Flint before he became a pirate, well it's easy to put the pieces together when you hold a piece of paper that concludes everything you thought of.

In this chapter I just wanted to show that Clara is a strong person, but at the same time, I would dare anyone to be in the 18th century, see a pirate ship heading straight for them and for them to just blow it off, it wouldn't have been realistic if I made Clara act that way. I think it would have just diminished her actual characters strengths and weakness's.

I remember from the show Gates telling Flint that Billy would be going with him, and Flint just asking, who's Billy? I thought having Clara have trouble remembering peoples names, especially ones that aren't really close to her, would draw some similarities between the two, they are after all father and daughter.

To be honest, I'm not that happy with John Silver in this chapter, I don't know how many times I've written and re-written his parts but it still feels very dodgy to me, i just hope the longer it goes on, the easier his character will be to get right. But i hope it doesn't bother anyone too much, if it does, I'm sorry!

So there we go, i hope you enjoyed it! I've written out up to chapter seven, so expect regular-ish updates. I can also let you guys know that Jack Rackham comes in properly chapter five, and Vane will come in chapter seven. I know it seems like a long time, but i need to lay some ground work for the story, but when they do come into play, they come in with a bang and pretty much don't leave.


	3. Who are you?

Clara remembered one Christmas in particular. The harvest of grain that year was dismal, almost non existent. When the grain harvests fell, so did the bakery. They would have to up their prices because the prices on the grain would soar, and that inevitably led to most customers not being able to pay for goods, or simply not willing to shed out more hard earned cash then they needed to.

Clara didn't blame them, but it didn't change the outcome, arduous times would follow. It wasn't that abnormal of an occurrence, harvests were unpredictable, however Mary and Clara normally saved up for such occasions, when the year was good, they would scurry away the extra money to help them through.

That year, Clara only being thirteen, was one of the hardest she had ever had to get through. They didn't have an easy go at life when the times were favorable, but they had always managed, always had proper food to fill their mouths.

Fish from the local fishmonger was a staple in Claras life. So much so Clara knew exactly when to travel down to the open markets and buy some, the end of each Thursday, when the fishmonger would have to throw away his fish because the next day they would not be suitable to sell. He would drop his prices in a last ditch effort to move the fish, Clara would still haggle of course, a good deal was always better when made cheaper.

They had their own milk, butter and cheeses from the stock they would use to bake, splitting it for their own use and a large portion of it going back into the bakery to keep it running. Potatoes were always dirt cheap and Clara had no problem in getting her hands on a cheap sack. Vegetables were hard to get ahold of, but Mary always handled that corner of food.

But that one year, was following a previously wretched year. They had blown through their savings, their supplies for the shop were severely low and when winter did hit, it hit hard. Gone were the fish, gone were the potatoes and gone were the sparse vegetables they had trouble getting anyway. Clara had to make do with gruel, stale bread that they could only eat when it was categorically sure they could not sell it on, and watered down milk.

They didn't really celebrate Christmas, not like she had heard of how the Gentry of England did. With colossal lavish feasts and copious amounts of mulled wine to wash it all down with. But every year, without fail, Mary would close down the shop for the day, huddle around the stoves fire, talking and laughing about inconsequential things and if Clara was lucky, Mary would sing.

They would have a nice meal, normally consisting of pigeon Mary would spend all year saving up for, some hearty root vegetables and a glass of milk. There was going to be no nice meal that year, Clara disbelieved they would make it through the full and blistering winter at all. Then Mr. Garlen came along.

He was a local farmer, known throughout Claras parts for his love of Gin. That year he must of gotten desperate, most likely having spent his savings on said Gin, because he came to their shop haggling for a measly three loaves of bread.

Till this very day Clara didn't know how her mother had managed it, but she did and right before Claras eyes. Mary had somehow convinced the ruddy faced, hungover farmer that for a months worth of free bread or pastries, that all she wanted was some lamb, vegetables and any grain he could get his hands on. Clara had been so shocked when he had readily agreed to the deal, and even more astonished when later that evening he came through their small shops door with two legs of lamb, three crates of vegetables and three sacks of grain.

The Christmas dinner, only using a small portion of their new found food, made Clara feel like she was eating like a king. She had never had lamb before, the price way to lofty to even consider looking at. They had huddled around the stove fire, wrapped in blankets for extra warmth, with a full meal of mash, runner beans, carrots and a large slice of lamb each. Clara had scoffed it all down with greasy fingers, savoring the lamb longer than she should have. It wasn't much, it never was, but with Mary beside her, food in her stomach and an orange glow from the stoves fire setting the scene, that Christmas became her favorite.

They say in times of great distress, or when your life was balancing on a knifes edge, you remember your life, a sort of series of flashbacks that led you to that very moment you found yourself in. Clara had no flashbacks, no exact path that led her there, standing hunched over a cooling body, blood seeping into the wooden planks of the cooks holding. But she did remember that Christmas with such a longing it charred her from the inside out.

Clara careened away from the body, her back met moist wall and her legs gave out from the knees, sending her sinking to the floor. The cook had come banging on the door an hour after the fighting had began, caterwauling to be let in. Silver had original said to ignore him, but Clara couldn't. When she went to try and lift the plank of wood securing them in herself, not quiet being able to heave the wood from its place, she had heard Silver huff in exasperation, storm towards her and reluctantly helped her out.

The cook had come barreling in, breathing heavily and sweating so much his shirt clung to him and his portly stomach. His eyes were red from the smoke filling the ship rapidly, hair mussed so much it stuck up in the oddest of places and a quiver to his hands that told that he had seen things he really didn't want to. Silver, and by proxy Clara, wasted no time in placing the wooden plank back in its slot. Clara, at this point thought it was pretty useless, it would only stave off the inevitable if the pirates got aboard the ship.

twisting to face the cook, Clara hadn't known what to say to the clearly distraught man. What was customary in a situation like this? From the state of him, asking him if he was alright was redundant and no other words would form in Claras mind to ease the man. John Silver seemed not to be afflicted with the same dilemma as Clara, having switched into his charming and ever-go-lucky mode without a hitch, as if people weren't dying above them.

The cook was twitchy, that much of obvious, and apart from his scowl and him telling them that Silver would get gutted by the pirate crew, Clara would wish she would have been gutted by the time they were through with her and his bizarre sense of self worth, promising them and himself he wouldn't die simply because he was the cook, Clara didn't think it would escalate the way it had.

Then a rolled up piece of paper, encased safely in leather, made an appearance. And when Silver had questioned it, the cook flipped. Brandishing a large sword Clara didn't know was even in the cooks holding. He had lunged for John with the deadly intent of death, Silvers death and likely hers to follow if he succeeded. But her legs seemed frozen to the spot, unable to budge or do anything to pacify the situation and help out Silver. She was just left there, dumbly wondering how the fuck things had gotten to this point in a matter of five minutes, and where the hell that sword had come from.

Silver had ducked at the right times, dodged too, but after one looming swing and a sway to the ship, Silver and the cook had gone flailing to the floor, Clara only managing to stay upright by holding onto the crate beside her, nearly pulling them on top of her in the process.

The cook was the first back up on his feat, and as he raised his sword high above his head, about to bring it down, Claras feet unstuck and and she found herself jumping on the mans back, peeling knife planted deep in between his shoulder blades, jerkily scuttling away when the bigger man began to plummet down face first.

It was only when she was lolled against the wall, blood casing her hands, that she remembered, in jagged shards of memories, that she had spotted the peeling knife laying innocently on a crate near her, she remembered picking it up and charging, only thinking about Silver and herself. Thinking About her own survival and how she refused to die down there, in the cooks holding, or end up watching Silver do the same.

"Clara?"

Two tanned hands were mustering her up and hauling her away from the wall, Closer to the body she wanted to be very far from. It was funny in a way, now the cannon fire didn't disturb her all that much, but the blood on her hands, both physically and metaphorically, made her want to rage, to cry, to laugh and portray every other emotion in between.

"I'm fine... I'm fine... I'm..."

Silver lifted her chin up, making her look at him dead on instead of looking at her hands held out in front of her. Her bloody hands. Silver was peering at her with a frown decorating his face, smile missing and something she couldn't name glittering in his bright eyes.

"Look, you did what you had to. He would have killed me and you both and if we're ever going to get off this boat in one piece, I'm going to need your head securely on your shoulders, not off somewhere it shouldn't be. Dealing with... This can come later, when pirates aren't storming above our heads and death isn't likely coming for me... And you."

Clara snarled and pushed him away with more strength she didn't think she had at this point. She should have known he wasn't trying to help her, help calm her down from the heights of panic she was quickly scaling. He was just looking out for himself and for one split second she thought someone had actually cared, someone who wasn't her mother.

She was such an idiot. No one in London had cared, so why would it be any different here? Mary was gone, and Clara had no one else to fall back on. That was the cold hard facts, and if she didn't start looking after her own back above all others, well, the cooks death would be the last of her worries. But he had a point, she could breakdown later, when all this was said and done and hopefully a distant memory better left never spoken about.

"Don't fucking worry about it. I said I'm fine."

The Lie felt like acid on her tongue. Silver beamed at her, but Clara turned away. She couldn't be dealing with her own shit and his right now. Silver was on his own... And so was she. Clara gulped down the lump of worry barring her throat.

That's when the slamming on the door started up. Clara realized that the cannon fire had been over for the last few minutes, maybe even since the cooks death, she had been so wrapped up in what had happened, she forgot to keep an ear out for the goings on of the upper decks, and seen as no one was shouting through the door, or Captain Ludford proclaiming it was alright to come out now, it wasn't that hard to guess who was breaking the door down like a big bad wolf. Clara would not play the part of the little piggy willingly.

The wood splintered, large chunks flying every which way, the door cracking from its brass hinges and falling to the floor with a resounding boom that made Clara feel like a noose was settling around her throat. Her heart pounded, sweat gleamed on her brow, but on the outside she hid it well, straightening up her shoulders and spine, not dropping her eyes from the door and the men storming in. If death was coming for her this day, she would look it right in the eyes.

A man with a bold head, a grey mustache and mutton chops combo came in the lead, bulky barreled flintlock gun leveled at her and Silver. His calculating gaze flickered between the two, eyebrow raised high on his forehead when he saw a woman, with blood on her hands and a dead body spread out between them and him and his men.

Clara didn't shrink away, only stood taller. Maybe it would show the pirates that she wouldn't go down without a fight. She promised herself, to Mary, to some god that had never lifted a finger to help her or her mother, that she would do just that. Before she went down, she would take a few of the fuckers with her.

Silver raised his hands up in surrender, stepping over the cooks body. Claras own stayed resolutely down at her sides. She half deprecated herself for not snatching the knife out from the cook before, now she had no weapons and a gun to her head. But she could hardly bring herself to glance at the cook she had killed, let alone grab the weapon.

"My name is John Silver, and I happen to be a very good cook. I wish to join your crew. This, this is my... Friend Cl-"

Clara cut him off. Half pissed at the man for worming his way through this, trying to use the card the cook would have used. But she mainly cut him off because of Captain Ludford. He had made her sprint for her birth certificate, made sure she was hidden well, that must of all been for something, and her just giving her real name out would ruin all that effort. God knows why her name must be guarded so well, but Clara wasn't willing to find out what would happen if it was.

"Claire, Claire Flaun."

The man regarded her too closely for comfort, and whatever he found must have amused him from the laugh he let free from deep within his chest. He lowered his gun, but the relief was short lived when he waved a hand towards her, A big burly man with too many scars to count came out from behind the man and towards her with quick, precise strides.

Before she could so much as take a step back, her hands were held behind her back and she was being dragged over by her hair towards the bald man with the gun. They stopped in front of him, so close she could smell the sweat, salt and rum emanating from him. Clara clenched her teeth hard, from the pain radiating out from her scalp, from her aching body, from her anger at this whole ordeal, and to stop herself from cussing the fuckers out or even worse, to stop herself from crying out in pain.

"Let's see if you're still Claire Flaun when you speak to our Captain. I haven't gotten this far in life by not being able to spot a liar lass, and something about you doesn't seem to fit right. You... Silver, follow."

The man took a hold of her from the other pirate, hand fastened around her bicep as he drew her out of the cooks holding. The other pirate let go of her hands and hair, and Clara had to refrain from rubbing her sore scalp. She wouldn't give them the pleasure of seeing her kick and try to fight her way out of it, she was already cornered, it would be futile, and she definitely wouldn't give them the pleasure of hearing her scream.

Clara heard Silver bound over from behind them, Clara and the nameless pirate leading the small group. When they reached the open space, Clara had to blink hastily at the sharp rays of sunlight momentarily blinding her.

Once her vision cleared, Clara automatically regretted that it did. Dead bodies were littered around the top deck, blood, splinters and roaming pirates were everywhere. The worst? At the base of one of the masts laid the mangled body of Mccaffer, cutlass buried deep in his chest, eyes lifelessly staring back at her.

Bile rose up Claras throat, her eyes watered at the sight. Mccaffer didn't deserve to die like that, he was a good man, he didn't deserve it. Non of Captain Ludfords crew deserved it. She must have stopped moving, because a harsh tug to her arm had her bumbling forward, feet tangled up in one another. The man who held her gave her a look that told her to get a move on, and Clara had to browbeat down the sick and tears that threatened to rise. She could morn later, she could break down later. Pressure built up in her chest when she wondered what else she would have to save for later? Where was her life going? Was it even going past this very day?

Not all was lost however, a battered group of Captain Ludfords men were herded into the middle of the deck. All looking worse for wear. A man stood in front of them, voice booming as he talked about being slaves, how they were being set free, how the true enemy was their Captain. When he pointed behind him, Clara followed with her eyes.

Clara went to make a dash for Captain Ludford, he was tied to the top mast with thick rope, looking a lot like the crew mates that had survived, but she didn't make it more than two steps before being yanked back by her hair.

"What do you think you're doing lass? Get a move on, Captain wont wait all day."

Clara bit back the fuck you that wanted to burst forth. They didn't stop in their march, ending up heading towards the hulls deck, where Captain Ludford was held prisoner, where a man stood with his back to them, whispering things to a very gaunt Captain Ludford. The men that followed the one who was dragging her broke off, joining other laughing pirates, but Silver stuck to their sides, in this she couldn't blame him, in his shoes she would have done the exact same thing. They had just came to the stairs leading up to the hulls deck when the pirate stopped in front of another pirate.

The man was tall, almost as tall as her and he was sitting down on the steps, sharpening a piece of wood with a pocket knife. He had blonde hair, blue eyes and a type of boyish air that left Clara contemplating how such a guy could be apart of the very same pirate crew that had towed her across ship, that killed Mccaffer, that was surely about to kill Captain Ludford.

"Gates?"

The man holding her, Gates, smiled and nodded his hello to the man, reaching an arm out he pushed Silver forward and towards the tall blonde. The blonde looked Silver up and down, disinterestedly, before focusing back on his whittling of what looked to be a thick stake. Maybe he wasn't as harmless as Clara originally pinned him down as.

"Ah, Billy, just the lad I was looking for. This one wants to join, says he's a cook."

The blonde, Billy, didn't even look back at Silver, just peered around them and gave the man who was giving the speech about Captain Ludford a scorching look. He eased back into his seat, thick arms braced across the steps behind him, spinning his knife around with a dexterity that didn't come naturally, only from practice. Definitely not harmless.

"With the way Singleton's going, he'll have a spot. He's acting like he's Captain already. Who's the broad?"

Billy didn't even give her the courtesy of looking at her while he addressed her presence, instead keeping eye contact with Gates as he nodded in her general direction. Clara was about to lose it, to let go on the unsuspecting Billy, when Gates must have seen the look on her face, jostling her before she could let go of the waning grip she had on her tongue and fists.

Gates was looking at her when he spoke, daring her to do or say anything, she had half the mind to take him up on the offer, damn the consequences. The longer time went on, the more likely she was going to end up dead at some ones feet... Or worse. She was after all a woman stuck on a ship full of criminal men. Clara would take death over that fate any day.

"This is someone who says she's someone she's not. I'm taking her to speak to the Captain. He'll get the truth out of her, if not, well, the lads will sure give it a go. Billy keep an eye on our new cook, John Silver, while I sort this mess out will yah?"

Clara snarled at Gates, ready to lunge and do something that would definitely end with her head on a pike, when he chuckled, let go of her arm and pushed her up the stairs. her foot caught on the edge of a step, sending her sprawled on all fours, knees burning from the impact. Clara tensed before scrambling back up, straightening out and marching herself up the stairs.

This was her death wasn't it? she was heading for her death, but she had promised herself she would face it head on, and she would. When everything had been taken away, her bakery, her mother and now the chance of a new life in Boston, Clara only had her pride left. She would be damned if she let the men take that too.

She could hear, and still smell, Gates behind her, most likely making sure she didn't try to make a run for it. She scoffed, where would she go? Jump into the sea? She had no where to go, not forgetting she couldn't even swim properly, doggy paddle sure, but that was about it. Bakers had no need to swim.

The man stopped talking to Ludford when Gates coughed, alerting him to their presence. He turned around, long black coat twirling through the air as he did so. He zeroed in on Gates but then gave her that same pin-sharp look. Clara found herself holding her breath, before she forced herself to ease her stiff body. She knew she wasn't going to get anything past this man, his eyes gave that away. But she had to try, her life could balance on what she said and did right here.

His hair was held back by a strap of leather, ginger goatee trimmed neatly, hand resting on the golden hilt of his sword and the other hand holding a large intricately decorated flintlock pistol made from oak. His leather boots hardly made a sound when he prowled towards them, black coat fluttering behind him from the wind.

Gates came beside her, eyeing her before turning back to his obvious Captain, even Clara could tell you that was who he was, he just radiated importance and a sense of beware. Gates once again tried to push her forward, but she held still, refusing to be forcibly moved again. Gates sighed in annoyance before addressing the Captains un-asked question.

"Says her names Claire Flaun."

The pirate Captain sighed, walking over to the railing, leaning against it, kicking one leg up against the poles as he fiddled with his gun, Clara had the sense that he was re-loading it and she morbidly wondered if one of the bullets would be the one to kill her.

"So?"

The Captain raised his gun, peering down the unlocked barrel before bringing it back down, delving into his pocket, he pulled a few bullets out of his coat, sliding them into the barrel and flicking the gun back together with a clink of metal. Clara winced at the noise, her nerves strung tight already. The threat was clear, he didn't need to load his gun in front of her, no, his was giving her a show, of what was likely coming for her.

"Girls obviously lying... Leaves me wondering why she would do such a thing in the first place. Lying about your name, not something everybody does. Thought I'd bring her to you Captain."

The Captain sighed, marched over and grabbed her chin in a tight grip, wrenching her face to look him in the eyes. Claras breath and her heartbeat picked up speed, sure the moment for her death was upon her. She glared into the mans eyes, a sea blue, almost identical to her own.

"Who are you, and no lies girl, that would be a mistake there's no coming back from."

Clara reached up, turned her head and pushed at the hand holding her at the same time, successfully breaking free from his hold. Her hair scattered around her face, and she needed no mirror to know how wild she looked right then, curls going everywhere, clothes stained and dusty, hands covered in flaking blood. Clara growled her answer through her teeth. She didn't only look wild, but she felt it too, her nerves frayed, her mind running a mile a minute and adrenaline thrumming through her.

"I told you, a stowaway called Claire Flaun. Nothing more, nothing less."

The Captain smirked at her defiance, snatched at the back of her collar and dragged her over to Captain Ludford. Clara tried to break free, heard her top tearing at her pull, but she couldn't break out of his hold. She was pulled in front of Ludford, the man staring wide eyed at the disheveled Clara, somehow managing to grow even more pale.

The pirate Captain let go of her collar, grasping the hair at the base of her skull , he pulled hard, making her head fling back and bare her neck, Clara grunted at the force and pain from the tug, but the pain was soon forgotten when she heard the sound of a sword being unsheathed and felt the cold metal touch the delicate skin of her throat, pressing so close, one wrong move and her throat would be slit, Clara held the most still she had in her entire life, breathing erratically.

"I'm going to ask one more time. One of you will answer or someone will be missing their head from their shoulders. Who the fuck are you!?"

Clara put it down to the stress, the weight of everything, of running through every other emotion within that hour. Clara Flint laughed, not a chuckle or a giggle, but the kind of laugh that if carried on would hurt your sides with cramps. She didn't know why she laughed, she found nothing funny about this situation at all, but at the same time, she was done, done with it all. Eyeing the man who was holding a blade to her throat, she spoke and spat on the floor in front of them, regretting she hadn't of spat in his face instead.

"Fuck you!"

Claras eyes slammed shut as she felt the blade dig in and draw back, ready to go in for the kill. Time seemed to slow down, her heart pumped irregularly in her chest and just as she felt the blade dig that tiny bit deeper, ready to swoop forward and snatch her very life from her, she heard Captain Ludford shout, halting the blade, the pirate Captain and her heart.

"No, please... I'll tell you, just don't kill her!"

Claras eyes flickered open and met the glazed eyes of Captain Ludfords. He was breathing heavily, shoulders sagging when the sword stopped it's movement. He's head lulled as he sighed, but then straightened back out as he regarded the pirate standing close behind Clara.

"Look in her trouser pockets, she has to have it, or the man that was with her, John Silver, if he's still alive, he will have it if she doesn't. Her birth certificate... I knew what it was when I first clocked eyes on the damned thing. And now... Now there's no denying who she is."

The blade left her throat and she heard it make its way back home in its holster. The hand pulling her head back left, and her neck sent a current of pain down her spine when she eased her head back to its rightful place. The Captain behind her pulled her closer to his body, patting her trouser with open palms. She saw him smile when he felt the lump of folded paper in her left pocket, a smile that would have fit itself on a fox just as well as his face.

His fingers entered her pocket and snagged the paper out, stepping back and away from her as he unfolded the paper, eyes flickering left and right as he took in the words the paper offered. The change in him was instantaneous, anger like nothing she had ever seen before took possession of him, Clara scuttled backwards from the force of it but he was fast.

He pulled her off her feet by her neck, fingers bruising her skin within moments, eyes blazing like a storm and white teeth snarled like an animals. Clara held onto his wrist in hopes of balancing herself, of loosening his grip so she could breath, feet swaying and kicking uselessly in the air.

"How did you get this? Tell me! Or I will rip you apart limb from limb! TELL ME!"

Gates came running over, trying to drag the man away from her as her vision started growing fuzzy and then crystal clear at intervals. Clara scratched, punched and clawed at his arm, but nothing stopped the grip. Gates was saying something, but Clara couldn't focus, too focused on how every part of her being burned or turned numb. Then the grip was gone and Clara was falling to the floor, coughing and spluttering as the much needed air filled her lungs and made her throat burn.

"Mine... It's mine... My names Clara Flint god dammit!"

The words came out broken and rough even to Claras ears, spiced with coughs and wheezy breaths as she sat on the deck, clutching at her neck. She glanced up, Saw the conflict in the pirate Captains eyes, he took a step forward, reaching out for her, but jerked the limb back when Clara flinched away from him. He staggered to the railing, falling against it as he ran a hand down his face, staring at nothing, his mind obviously off in a far off place. The pirate Captain came back to the land of the living, breaking the gargantuan silence the people on the hull deck found themselves enshrouded in.

"Mary. Is Mary onboard?"

Clara had no clue how the man knew her mother, scrap that, she had no idea what the hell was going on. Everything her world had consisted of was gone, and in its place were strange blood thirsty pirates, anger, swords and a rigidness of the will to survive. She had killed a man that day... She had actually plunged a knife into someone, she didn't know her world anymore, didn't know the people around her and worst of all, she didn't know herself, didn't know what exactly she was capable of.

"No, My mother, she's dead. It's just...Me. Just me."

That sentence held a lot more to Clara then the pretext she had said it in. It was true in so many ways that it stung to say it out loud. She was alone, scared shitless, and surrounded by people who didn't give a second thought about killing people for such a silly thing like gold and notoriety. If she lived to see sunrise, Clara knew without a doubt, the Clara who saw it wouldn't be the same who awoke this morning, not after everything that had happened.

"How?"

Clara grew fed up with the pirate Captains prodding, especially at such a sore spot her mother was.

"Does it really matter?!"

The Captain kicked off from the railing, walking over and stopping a few feet away, crouching down and resting on the balls of his feet as he stared at her, arms resting over his knees and his coat spread about the deck. His shadow was so large as the sun cast it over her.

"yes it does. How did she die Clara?"

Clara heaved herself up and back onto her feet, how many times would she have to do that this day? Clara wanted to get him to back off from the topic, to not make her talk about it, but he seemed to be just as stubborn as her mother was, as she was. It would just end up as a game of running in circles, one she was likely to come out of with a bullet wound to the head.

"Consumption. Before it got too bad, four months ago, she sent me onto this ship, told me to make it to Boston where my cousin would be waiting for me. By now it has likely already taken her. She wanted me out of England. To have a fresh start. Then you and your crew turned up."

The pirate Captain stood up, rubbing his hands across his eyes like he hadn't had a good nights rest in too long. Clara felt no sympathy, for what he had done, to her, to the crew, to the poor men and boys whose bodies lay bellow them, she thought lack of sleep was a light penance to pay. The silence was once again broken, this time by Gates who looked quizzically between the Captain and a ragged and bruised Clara.

"Mind clueing me in Captain?"

The Captain held up the paper and smashed it into Gates chest, not waiting for him to grab it as he let it go, Gates had to scrabble for the paper before it fell to the ground or got blew away in the wind. Clara almost wanted it to happen, especially with how much trouble the small piece of paper had caused her. Gates read it through, eyes growing wide as he turned towards the Captain who was now standing at the top of the stairs.

"Is it true?"

The Captain looked over his shoulder, eyeing her again but something was lurking in his eyes, something she couldn't and didn't want to name. For the closest thing she could get to naming it would be shame, shame and worry. And Clara refused to believe the man in front of her could feel such things, seen as not five minutes ago he was strangling the life out of her. He turned back around, shouting over his shoulder to Gates.

"Would she still be alive if it wasn't? I can't deal with this right now, this crew has bigger things to think of. Keep her safe for me, and don't let the crew lay a hand on her."

And he was gone, with a swing of his black coat, he was off down the stairs and out of sight. With no Captain to aim her anger too, Gates was the recipient of her glare and tight knuckled fists.

"When you look at me like that, I can easily see it. Don't know why I didn't before. You have the red hair and all."

Clara ignored him, instead glancing down the stairs where the Captain had stormed down, she could hear him shouting at his crew, celebrating their great win. She never wanted to gut a bastard as much as she did then when she heard the loud cheers erupt from the pirates.

"Who was he?"

Gates smiled at her, not mockingly but reminiscent of a childs smile that got to give away the big surprise. He lifted up her birth certificate, now slightly wrinkled and torn from being thrown around so much. Gates pointed a ringed finger to her fathers signature, grin growing as he did so.

"That lass, was James Flint. Your good, ol' dad.

* * *

 **NEXT CHAPTER:** Nassau and Clara plans a great escape, but does it work out?

 **NOTES:** Right, Once again, I'm sorry for the awfully long note, I promise I will try to cut them down and keep them short in following chapters, I know the last thing most people want to read in a fanfiction is a long winded spiel about this and that. However, there are some things that really do need addressing.

I know Flints name is really McGraw, I thought I was being clever, I know a bad thing already, in hiding a big plot twist for this story. All I can say on the subject is three things. Clara's birth certificate is not what it seems, there was a reason Ludford held it up to the light and Miranda wanted a pardon for Flint so they could live in Boston... the same place Clara has a 'cousin' waiting for her.

I know that sounds stupid and a bit like Whaaaat? How is that important? But I promise, well hope at this point, that it will all come together smoothly and it will make sense... Fingers crossed!

Also, do not worry, Flint is definitely her father, I just wanted to make that clear. But this whole plot only comes into play around chapter eight, nine or ten? So all answers about it will be played out in the story then, however, hints are dropped in a few chapters here and there. Hopefully better hidden seen as you guys seem to smart to get anything past. XD

Now onto the name of Captain Ludford, I would have liked to say I purposefully done that too... But I would be lying through my teeth! I honestly re-watched the first episode again so I could try and get the guys name, but I must of missed it, so I just re-named him. I'm really sorry that it might bug some of you, but my hands are already tied. I'll try and not make such a rookie mistake next time.

As for this chapter, I know the reunion wasn't as heart warming as some would like it, I had wrote it out and even I was shocked at the way it turned out. But I like it in a way, it gives chance to show Claras fire and Flints cut-throat attitude in one fell swoop, and how stubborn both can be. I would like to say Clara has an easy time from here on out, but we all know that's going to be a lie. I just can't see Clara or Flint running towards each other shouting daddy or daughter dearest and sailing off into the rainbow.

On to the last order of business and the most **IMPORTANT** , thank you all for such lovely reviews. They really do make me smile and you're all so lovely, not to mention they ease off the worries of, oh I should have done this or I should of done that instead or the dreaded, I didn't get that character right. I just want to hug every one of you, really. So once again a big THANK YOU, I hope you enjoyed the chapter and the rest of the story! Please drop a review if you have the time.-GoWithTheFlo20


	4. Shackles

Not many things could unbalance Clara Flint. Before the pirates had commandeered Captain Ludfords ship, she could name them off on one hand with fingers to spare. That had drastically climbed after Captain Ludfords ships fall, growing to a number Clara refused to admit. The things she had seen, the things she had done, in the name of survival or anger, they could be pushed down. Forgotten about until night fell upon her and she had nowhere to run from her own mind. Night was always the worst, it stripped Clara bare until it felt like every one of her secrets, feeling like exposed nerves, were left for the world to see and the cold wind to blow on. It made her feel weak, she despised the feeling.

One thing wouldn't be kept for the isolation of night and the security Clara felt it gave her. Captain Flint, her supposed father, was not something she could save herself from during the day. She caught him watching her sometimes, with now the knowledge of who he was, startling and unsettling eyes that looked like hers.

In the beginning, when she had been ushered onto the new ship, Gates leading her into another cooks holding she would call home for the next week, she had spent hours, days trying to rationalize everything, only to realize she wasn't trying to rationalize it at all, she was trying to come up with excuses and tales she could let herself by into, something to take her way from the reality she found herself in.

The tales she mentally spun ranged, depending in what mood she was in that day. On terrible days, when the weight of everything was pressing on her shoulders and the night before particularly bad, Clara would deny everything. Flint wasn't her father, her father was dead, in jail or just didn't care for her. He was playing a game with her, playing with his food before he went in for the kill.

But the nagging and tiring voice of reason always brought her around. As the days past, and she found herself not dead, she accepted they had no reason to lie. Captain Ludford had no reason to lie. She was grasping at straws, trying to find answers to questions she had no hope of answering herself.

The problem was she couldn't bring herself to ask Flint about it, or Gates. Half refusing for her pride, half refusing because she was scared... Petrified of the answers that would come her way. For once Clara didn't want to know something, she wanted to be kept in the dark because if she didn't know, she could carry on pretending nothing had changed. But everything had changed, she had changed. Clara wasn't sure she liked the new her or not, the one who had killed the cook without much thought.

During her time on Captain Flints ship, she rarely ventured out of the cooks holding. She didn't want to see the pirates, didn't want to see their Captain and didn't want to tempt the cruel fate that had led her into this situation in the first place. She was alive, and as long as that stayed true, she had the chance to get out of this god forsaken place, away from these strangers she found herself surrounded by.

She couldn't be guarded twenty-four-seven. As soon as one of them slipped, even the tinniest bit, she would bolt faster than lightening. They had to dock at some point, the confines of Flint and his ship could not always hold her, all she had to do was buy her time until she could get away. Clara hated the waiting game, she found herself hating a lot of things lately.

Thankfully, the pirate crew skirted around her as much as she did to them. The only people she had to confront everyday was a man called Randall, who Clara was sure wasn't all there in the head, Gates when he visited and bloody John Silver. She didn't even have to leave the cooks holding, having secured a nest of blankets in the corner of the room, for when she could eventually grasp the slippery tendrils of sleep, not have her closed eyelids replaying the moment when the knife tore through the cooks back.

The crew may have left her well enough alone, but the same could not be said for their imposing Captain, and that's what unnerved her so. It wouldn't have unsettled her as much if he actually spoke, said at least one word to her, even if it was to threaten her life, she would have preferred that over what she actually got.

She spent her days helping Randall, peeling and chopping food to be chucked into a giant burnt pot for him to cook. Clara didn't help for the sake of the crew, no, but she had to keep her hands busy, her mind busy. If she didn't, she was sure she would go insane, break or explode of repressed emotions. Non of those options were acceptable in her opinion. She had to escape, and to escape she had to keep as much of her mind stable as possible. Anger wouldn't ensure her escape, logic would.

Sometimes she would feel a heat on the back of her neck while she was hunched over the bucket, peeling knife and potato in hand. It felt like a cattle brand being pushed into her skin. She would turn around, and there he would be, Captain Flint, storm raging in his eyes, arms crossed over his chest as he stared at her inscrutably. She never backed down from the challenge of keeping eye contact, knowing her own eyes swirled with their own storm of un-nameable emotions. He wouldn't utter a word, wouldn't smile, wouldn't scowl, just stare. It always ended the same too, he would turn in a twirl of flapping coat and disappear down the way he had came, no words ever passing between the two of them.

It happened again, on a day that was exactly the same as the rest of the week she had been on Captain Flints ship. Clara had a routine going by now, wake up, wash her face and hands in a dubiously clean bucket of icy water, roll up her filthy sleeves, set to work, curl up in a cocoon of blankets, try to push everything her mind threw at her away and hopefully catch an hour or two of sleep. Gates was visiting that day, she was already sitting on an upturned empty crate, peeling away, when he made his entrance.

Silver was trying to wiggle information out of Randall, only to get animal noises, or Claras personal favorite, 'I don't like you', for his efforts. Miraculously Silver always shut up when anyone came near the cooks holdings door. She didn't know how Silver knew when people were coming, but she found his talent useful. Her own personal alarm of when to slam her guards all the way up.

Gates came in as usual, he would speak to her, trying his own charming way of getting information out of her, but she never spoke back to him. She nodded when needed, shook her head when the time was right, but she never gave him a concrete answer to one of his questions. She knew she annoyed him by his huffs and sighs as his questions dragged on, and as petty as it sounded, she enjoyed his agitation immensely.

That day, Gates was asking about her home town again, rolling his eyes and shoulders when all she did was grunt. But this time, instead of another question being asked, he froze, Clara could see the still of his movements from the corner of her eye. From the searing of the skin on her neck, it didn't take two guesses to know why. Twisting her head slowly towards the door of the cooks holding, flame colored hair falling out from being tucked behind her ear, she saw what she had expected to see, Flint at the doorway. They did their routine clash of wills, neither coming out on top.

Flint was the first to break it, turning and vanishing into the shadows of the hallway, like he was never there to begin with. Clara sometimes wondered if she wasn't insane already and Flint was a phantom her mind had created to haunt her. This time, she could catch glimpses of him from the sun light breaking through the wooden planks, like snap shots of him walking away. Claras tense muscles relaxed a fraction, only to jar back to rigidness with a twinge when she felt a heavy hand land on her shoulder.

Glaring up at the owner of the hand, she was met with a soft smile on Gates welcoming face. Her anger left her, floating away from her like smoke from a fire, in its absence she was left with a bone wearingly feeling of absolute tiredness. She wanted, needed the anger back. If she was going to survive this, she would need to keep that fire of rage burning bright. It was the only thing driving her at this point.

"Don't worry lass. I've known that man for many a moon. The Captain may be a lot of things, things even I don't know, but he's never been good at approaching... Delicate situations softly. Not in his blood that one. He's just as lost as you are about the whole thing. Give it time."

Clara couldn't stop the scoff from bubbling out, turning back to her work of peeling potatoes with a harsher twist to her knife, more potato going into the waste bucket than potato skin. Mary had told her once she needed to keep her head cool, not to run into things with guns smoking. Clara however, had never been able to acquire that hard learned skill, and to have someone, anyone draw a likeness between her and Flint, even if they didn't have any predilection to do so, it made her blood boil as her anger swelled back to life. She was nothing at all like that man. But she was infinitely grateful for Gates bringing her anger back, even if that was not his goal.

"I'm not lost. I know exactly where I am. On a pirate ship, heading to the back end of no where. If your Captain has trouble knowing that, then you're all shit out of luck."

Gates let out a wall shaking laugh, clapping her on the back roughly, jostling her forward, as he began strolling out of the cooks holding. Clara carried on with her task of peeling, which was now more like hacking off chunks with a flurry of stabs and slices. They needed to hit land soon, or the potato in her hand would turn into crew mates.

As if her prayers were answered, a shout rang through out the ship, pausing the flicks of her knife and even stalling Silver and Randall from their mundane bickering. Clara stared above her, looking at the dripping ceiling in amazement before the word had fully registered in her mind. Land, one word that in Claras normal everyday life didn't hold much bearing in the grand scheme of things, but here, on this ship, to Clara it meant everything. Here was her chance, but the question was, was she ready to take it? To take the consequences of failure if all fell through? Yes, yes she was.

Forgetting about the pirate infested ship, forgetting about keeping a low profile as much as humanly possible in such an enclosed space, Clara ran for the top deck. Darting past men, pushing and squirming her way through, even knocking into some, she made it to the top deck. Scrambling up the stairs to the hulls deck, Clara saw what she had needed to see, what she had prayed to see.

It was nothing like England, held no resemblance to anything Clara had ever seen before. But it was a hell of a sight. The island stood proudly in the middle of the sparkling blue sea and clear skies. Sands looking softer than any Clara had dreamed or seen before, almost like a golden flour instead of the rocky pebbled beaches of Englands coastal line.

From the ships distance, she could see clusters of what looked like tents set up on the beach, straw huts dotted around, a hill with a stone fortress bearing down on the island. Clara couldn't see further inland, tents, huts and distance blocking her appraisal.

Claras breath caught in her throat... It was enchanting. No other words could fit the place and even the ones she had chosen had a hard time of living up to the island itself. For one moment, she forgot every trouble she had faced in the last few months. She was a child again, knobbly kneed and all, adventuring to a distant exotic land to fight the dreaded dragon and reclaim a long lost crown. She held no cares, no worries. Nothing but excitement and wonder only a childs eyes and mind could paint.

Clara ran to the railing, wind blowing through her hair as her large eyes took in as much of the island as she could. The sound of the men behind her cheering and whooping smashed her make believe bubble, leaving Clara in the frigid real world. The dreaded dragon turned into Flint, the lost crown her freedom. The island didn't feel as magical as it did seconds prior. Shaking her head, Clara backed away from the railing and the island, mentally ordering herself to get a grip.

Glancing around herself and the busy crew, she saw long boats being lowered into the sea, men in teams of four picking up the ores and rowing towards the golden beach. Clara took a step forward, towards the long boats, when a hand clamped around her arm, pulling her to a man she would have rather not have run into.

Flint snatched up her hands, pulling them out in front of her, forcing her palms together as he bound her wrists in iron shackles. The lock clicking shut with a finality that spoke more than just the shackles themselves. The two shackles were held together with a thick chain of interlinked hoops, only allowing her to pull her arms an inch further than her shoulder span. Clara tried hard to school her features into indifference. The shackles were a set back, granted, but not a full deterrent for her escape. She just had to play this carefully.

"I know that look, and if I were you, I would wipe it from my mind. Stay close to me, one wrong move and I'll chain you to myself."

Clara met Flints eyes head on, begrudgingly realizing he would of course known she wouldn't have given up so easily, especially after her whole fuck you stunt with a sword to her throat. It just wasn't in her to call it quits when she still had breath in her. Clara expected Flint to frown at her, to curse at her, or even send a hit sailing her way. She got a smile instead, one that said he knew exactly what she was still thinking... And he was proud of her for it.

Clara had to turn away from him. She didn't want... Didn't need his approval. Her father... He... Flint didn't mean jack shit to her. She only wanted him to start reacting the way she expected him to. She couldn't predict the unpredictable, and if she couldn't gage his reaction, how was she meant to out think and escape him?

Flint half led, half dragged her to a empty long boat, pushing her in before climbing in himself. Gates and Billy joined them instantly once Flint situated himself. The long boat swayed a little with the calming waves when it hit the water, and then they were off across the sea and towards the beach that had captured her attention so entirely when Clara first laid her eyes on it. Flint and Clara was in the front, Billy rowing by himself in the middle and Gates relaxing in the back.

As they rowed forward, no one spoke, each person likely thinking about their own troubles and plans. Clara herself was doing the same thing. Thinking and re-thinking her escape. The shackles were a problem, one she had to find a way around, but they held nothing against the man sitting next to her. How was she going to get out from under Flints hawk like eyes? How did you out plan someone like him?

The long boat ground to a halt as they rowed as far as they could inland. Flint wasted no time, heaving her up and out of the boat, marching her through calf high sea water to the beach, Claras leather boots getting uncomfortably soggy in the process. They were greeted on the beach by half of the boisterous crew, Billy and Gates not far behind them. Clara was surrounded, and to get away, she needed them either gone, or distracted. Former being preferable in her opinion.

Looking around the full beach, Clara took in the passers-by and mix-matched camps, trying fruitlessly to pick out any possible ally in her quest for freedom. She instead was only met with drunks, unlit campfires, sand worn tents, and men who seemed more preoccupied with a supposed whore house.

Flint let go of her arm, took a few steps forward, turned towards his gathered crew and began addressing them about their time on the beach and what time they should be back onboard his ship. An idea came crashing down on her and Clara knew what she had to do to get away, and all it took was for Flint to take those minor steps away from her.

Flint expected her to have planned out her escape, which he was correct in, Clara had been doing just that. To out plan an unpredictable person, you, yourself had to become unpredictable. If they thought she was planning out her escape, it gave them time to counter her moves, to make contingencies for anything she might come up with. No one, not even herself until this moment, would expect her to throw caution to the wind and just run for it, to run off into an island and its inhabitants she knew nothing about. To make a go for it with no plans or schemes to back her up.

But with Flints back to her, with him and Gates not expecting her to pull anything when she had only just stepped foot onto sand, now was the perfect time. If she ran now, when Flint was preoccupied by his crew and his crew vice versa, it would give her a few seconds head start. Then, all she had to do was hide, and hide well. It was risky, beyond risky, but it was the only thing that could possibly work.

Slyly turning her head to the side a fraction, she saw Gates and Billy behind her, both watching Captain Flint, both far enough away that they would not grab her in time if she bolted right then. Flint wasn't watching her, so he would only know when he heard her running or Gates alerted him. There was no way he could turn in time to grab her either, not if she started off in a full out run, which she was planning to anyway. This was their slip up. Anxiety sunk in her gut, it was either now or never, Clara doubted she would have a second chance offered to her on a silver platter again.

The heels of her leather boots dug into the sand, readying herself to run, with one last glance around her, to the people who had taken over Captain Ludfords ship and irrevocably changed her life, hands still encased in iron, shaking from the adrenaline building up in her system, Clara pounced on her opportunity. Feet kicking up sand, Clara ran for all she was worth, to her right where there were the least amount of people blocking her path and would inadvertently slow her down.

She didn't dare turn around, not willing to take her eyes from the important task of finding the right place to run to or around. She didn't turn when she heard Flint shout her name, she didn't turn around when she heard Gates order Billy to get the fuck after her, and she definitely didn't turn when she heard Billys footsteps pound after her, not far behind.

Pushing her legs to move faster, Clara dashed into a crowd of people who were more than a little drunk. With knowing it was Billy who was running after her, she could plan for it. Billy was big, one of the biggest people Clara had ever met in her short life. Clara on the other hand was extremely short, barely topping five foot three, thinner than Billy and could slide in and out of spaces Billy had no hope of ever getting through. It was a trick she had learned when she used to pick pocket in London, or steal fruit from the markets.

To loose Billy, she needed to use their physical differences against him. If she stayed out in the open like she had been doing before turning into the crowd, there would be no doubt he would eventually catch her. But if she led him through thick crowds, through closely packed tents and around sharp corners, she might have an actual chance of coming out on top.

Claras legs began to cramp, her lungs burning and she had taken on even more bruises from the bumps and bangs she had caused by running through crowds of large men, her left shoulder being one particular sore spot above the rest of an aching body. Clara knew she couldn't keep this up for much longer, she was already slowing down and she could still faintly hear Billy behind her. She needed to lose him now or this whole thing was for nothing. Running around another tent, Clara saw a straw hut to her right, a street leading into a town in front of her and open beach to her left.

Her steps faltered before picking back up, running to her right, Clara hoped she had made the right choice. Getting to the hut, Clara dived behind one of the broad wooden poles holding the thatched straw roof up. She backed up against the pole, letting herself drop to the floor in hopes of making herself smaller, and therefore harder to spot. Her eyes clamped shut tightly, her chest heaving with her staggered breaths, heart beating like a drum in her ear, but all she could focus on was Billys echoing footsteps getting closer and closer.

When his footsteps sounded right behind her, Claras heart stopped, tensing as she readied herself to fight. She had not ran all this way to end up putting her hands up and saying 'okay, you've got me' and calmly walking back. Her heart erratically beat its rhythm in her chest, and Clara could of cried happily when Billys footsteps carried on past her and into the street she had been indecisive about taking.

Her bones and muscles melted, making her sag against the wooden pole she was hiding behind. She shakily ran a hand down her face, fingers jittering across her freckled nose. That was too close for any form of comfort. Calming herself down, Clara peeked out from behind the pole, majority still hidden behind the wood, one lone eye peering out. Searching the surrounding area, Clara could have laughed when she saw Billy was no where in sight.

Twirling back around, her eyes were drawn to the inside of the hut, the poorly made wonky door open wide for everyone to see inside. A man, obviously drunk off his face from the blown glass bottles of rum scattered around him, was passed out on the floor. His clothes were half hanging off him, a large three pointed hat laying innocuously under his outstretched hand.

Giving a glance to her surroundings, Clara realized she was the only ginger she had seen so far. Dark auburn, or auburn she had seen one or two, still nowhere near the amount of blondes and brunettes, but not the golden red of her own hair. If she went out like she was now, golden red curls all over the place, shackles on show, she would stick out like a sore thumb. She would be found and back on Captain Flints ship within an hour if she made that stupid mistake.

Claras eyes were drawn back to the drunk man, coming to the conclusion that there was only one thing for it. She would have to steal that hat. Hopefully he had guzzled enough rum to be out stone cold, if he wasn't Clara would have some explaining to do. If she didn't end up with that mean looking cutlass strapped around his waist through her sternum.

Crawling over, keeping low to the ground, Clara entered the hut. She dodged the bottles, and got as close to the man as she was comfortable with. Hand raised hesitantly over the mans hand, the one laying on top of the hat she needed, Clara tried to convince herself this was a good idea. She had come this far, faced what she had perceived at the time was her own death, seen people she liked die horribly. She could steal from a drunk pirate, even if she hadn't lifted anything since she was a little girl and was running around the streets of London like a wild animal.

With a calming inhalation, and a quiet puff of expelling the air, she pinched the mans shirt cuff, lifting his hand slowly and just high enough to use her other hand to pull the hat from underneath. She had just managed to get the hat out far enough before the chain linking her wrists together palled taught. Lowering the mans hand slowly to the floor, she could have shouted in triumph when he did nothing but obnoxiously snore away, even as she swooped up the hat and edged out of the hut.

Standing outside the hut, hidden by a tent, Clara piled her hair on top of her head, pulling the slightly large hat on, shoving any stray curl back into the hat that had escaped. The hat would do no good in hiding her appearance up close, but at a distance it would do the job. And anyway, if they were close enough to see her face, or the nape of her neck where her hair still showed, she was already done for, hair hidden or not.

gazing down at her chained hands, all Clara could do was pull her sleeves down and over the metal cuffs as much as the chain allowed. Scrunching up the excess chain, she crossed her arms over her chest, her baggy sleeves and crossed arms hiding the chain and cuffs from prying eyes. If someone looked close enough, they would see the shackles, but once again it was the best Clara could do out of a bad lot.

Clara started walking back to the beach, knowing if she went down the road to the town so soon, she would likely run into Billy, but if she ventured too far down the beach, she might run into Flint, Gates or someone else who would recognize her. She took the corners cautiously, knowing one wrong footing on her part, one flash of her face to the wrong person and she would be back at Flints side and under the watch of more people she could escape from. Or Flint would cut his loses when he realized the risk was more then the gain of keeping someone who would be prone to flights.

It took her nearly half hour of wondering, peering behind her back and hiding before she saw an empty tent she could house herself in and figure out her next steps. Now that she was relatively free, she needed to think about where she was going to go, what she was going to do and all the things to ensure her freedom, her survival, and fingers crossed, a quick exit from this place.

The tent was made out of a sheer fabric, or so worn down that you could see the shadows of anything that laid inside. Thankfully, that was all you would see from the outside with the flaps of the entrance closed, nothing but faceless silhouettes. When she reached the entrance, flaps pinned open, she turned her back to it, giving one last scan of the beach and its inhabitants. When she thought she was in the clear, Clara quickly untied the strings holding the flaps open, ducked inside and sighed when she was safely hidden with nothing but a thread bare clothe obscuring her from the outside world.

Looking around her new hidden cubby, she saw a little wooden table pushed up in the corner of the tent, marching over, she lifted the little tools laying on top of it. Short knife, odd bits of wood, pincers and a rusted pair of scissors. Nothing at all that would help her out of the shackles. Clara flopped onto the sandy floor, still warm, even without the sun beating down on it. Whipping her hat off, curls cascading down her back, Clara threw the hat away from her in dejection. The old thing skidded across the sand, coming to a stop near the entrance of the tent, where something long, pointy, brass, with a round head laid. A boat nail, one thick and long enough to most likely nail the masts up, or the hull together. Something perfect to use for breaking through iron.

Clara dived for it, scuttling on her hands and knees until the object was safely in her hands. For the first time in weeks, in months, a true smile lit up her face. This could get the bloody cuffs of her wrist. Her head darted right to left, looking all over the ground of the tent when she saw a rock, not overly large, but big enough to get the job done, pinning one of the corners of the tent down.

Clara got up, boat nail still in hand, dragging the table with her, she swapped the rock for the table. Taking her prizes back to the middle of the tent, she dropped the rock in the sand, sat down and place the nail beside her.

Spreading the chain of the cuffs tightly, she picked up the boat nail, laid the chain on the rock and set to work on smashing the chain to bits. Hit after hit, her arm grew heavy. She began sweating, having to stop every few minutes to wipe her brow and catch her breath. She could feel her sweat running down her back, making her shirt stick to the skin there. She was terribly uncomfortable, under the blazing heat, the tent stopping the breeze of the beach from cooling her down, bashing away with a heavy boat nail. But she didn't stop, she couldn't, this meant freedom and she was willing to bleed for it.

Clara carried on, growing worried and agitated as minutes turned to half hour, and half hour turned into a full hour. So far, all she had managed was to flake the metal, make a few dents in the link she was hammering away on. She was no where near getting them off and she held no doubts if she didn't move on from the tent soon, someone would find her. The owner of the tent, Flint or one of his crew members, or another pirate. It didn't matter which one, they would likely lead to the same end.

Time was ticking on and she was growing weak, exhausted from lack of sleep, lack of food and the damned heat. In a last effort, she gave it her all, bringing the nail down faster and faster, harder and harder. Nothing at all changed. Clara lost it, she felt like screaming, pulling her hair out at the roots, kick and punch something. Instead, she managed to hold back to a loud shout of 'for fuck sake!', throwing her nail across the tent as she did so.

The rock was about to join the same fate as the nail when she noticed the difference of lighting playing across the sand. A triangular shape of bright sun was lighting up just in front of her feet, two people shaped shadows breaking up the brightness of the sunlight. A chuckle came from the door way, and Clara found herself jerking up to her feet, backing away from the entrance, hip bumping into the table she had hauled to the corner, taking in the people who had snuck up on her.

A woman with red hair, much darker then her own, stood with a man. She wore a pinned brown hat, one eye hidden by the rim of the hat and her hair. Her long coat hid her clothes, but not the swords strapped to her hips, her hand resting on the hilts. She was only partially turned towards Clara, facing the man next to her more than anything else.

Clara guessed it was the man who had laughed, by the snarky grin that graced his lips. Black hair slicked back, but still managing to stick out in some places. He wore a flamboyant coat, embroidered at the cuffs, tatty scarf loosely rapped and knotted around his neck, the oddest pair of glasses Clara had ever seen perched on his nose. He took a step into the tent, hands lingeringly spreading in front of him, around the tent. His smile grew and Clara grew tense.

"Well what do we have here?"

Claras hand clenched harder around the rock in her hand. If they wanted a fight, they were going to get one, hands shackled or not.

* * *

 **A.N-** I know, nothing really happens this chapter apart from Claras escape, however it's needed to happen for what I'm planning to happen, to well happen. Don't worry, this is far from the last we see of Flint and Silver.

I can say this story picks up pace from now on, no more time skips or cutting down information. It's just if I kept in the whole ship ride to Nassau, it would be boring and way to long to get anywhere in the story.

 **IMPORTANT** \- Here's the major question I want to put out there, the pairing is getting to me. Everytime I settle onto this story being a Vane/Clara/Jack story, Silver pops his head through the door with his charm. So what do you guys think? **Vane/Clara/Jack** , **Vane/Clara** , **Jack/Clara** , **Silver/Clara** or a **Vane/Clara/Silver** story? Please P.M me or put it in a review, and just in case you guys don't want to do either of those, I will be setting up a poll on my Fanfiction homepage, if you guys could vote in that, I would be eternally grateful. You will be able to vote for two pairings, so keep that in mind if you choose to vote. I will give it a week before I close the poll then, so which ever pairing comes out on top, thats the pairing of this fic.

Once again I hope you guys enjoyed, and please leave a review :) - GoWithTheFlo20


	5. Red Venom

"Well you're not a whore, not in those rags. Not a crew mate, not with those irons around your wrists... So, who exactly are you?"

The man ran his eyes up and down her as he spoke, picking apart her appearance to find out the answers he coveted. He was circling the entrance of the tent with slow footsteps, blocking her only means of escape, right hand fiddling with the cuff of his left arm as he rattled of his findings. Because that's what he was doing, not speaking to Clara directly, he was thinking out loud.

The woman hadn't moved an inch, and it made Clara weary. She knew if anyone was going to attack first, from her facial expression, her hands still laying on the hilts of her twin swords, and her stance, it would be her. Clara refused to let her eyes stray from the woman for too long, knowing as soon as she was fully distracted, her attention else where, the woman would likely go in for the kill.

Thoughts whirled in Claras mind, the way she saw it she had three options. Refuse to speak at all, maybe provoking the pair she had fallen into the company of in the process, ending in the plausible outcome of her death. Clara wrote that option off as soon as it passed her mind.

Option two was to tell them everything, equaling two outcomes. If they were friends of Flints, she would be towed back to him and handed over. If they weren't, but knew of Flint, they could use her as leverage over him, or be killed as a bloody message to the pirate, a one up on him so to speak. Neither ending looking all that great from Claras perspective, actually rather grim in all accounts.

Or she could lie. Which entailed its own set of troubles. She couldn't lie for shit, Gates had seen through her words in seconds. If she did magically convince them she was a nobody, then they would have no qualms of snuffing her out. So, she had to seem like a nobody, but at the same time someone who wasn't worth killing or shouldn't be killed, and if they weren't cold hearted killers, something she was still debating over, she may get through this with her life in tact.

The man must have been expecting an answer from her from his last question, because he twisted around to face Clara, eyes locked with his partners, he nodded in Claras direction. The woman stepped fully into the tent, the flaps closing behind her ominously, enclosing a bound Clara in a tent with two armed people, neither looking all that reserved at using their weapons.

Clara tensed, running was out of the cards, not that she considered that a full option to begin with. They were smart, keeping near the entrance, there was a snow balls chance in hell she could run past them without either one raising a hand to stop her... Or worse.

"Look at the little peach Jack, I'm surprised she ain't gone burned in this heat... Or someone hasn't picked her off her little peach tree."

Claras hand wrapped tighter around the rock it held, her nails digging harshly into the stone. She was surprised her fingers were holding up against the pressure building up between her hand and the rock. She was tired, absolutely exhausted. She was tired of all the games people were trying to play with her, tired of pirates and ships, and tired from watching her back consistently in fear of a dagger making a home there.

If the woman and Jack thought they could make her run for the hills because of a few well phrased words spoken in sneers and shark-esque grins, they had another thing coming. Her anger had been climbing for weeks, months if she took her mothers death and having to leave England into it. If they wanted to be the targets for that anger to last out at, well they were doing a good job at lining themselves up.

"I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. End of. Now, how about you two turn around and leave, before I really loose my temper."

That was when Clara realized she didn't need to lie at all, half truths would see her through. Lying, but at the same time not lying. She did feel like she was in the wrong place at the wrong time, the revolving point of her lifes story it seemed to her. If she believed in it, she could sell it.

If she made the two think she wasn't worth the aggravation, if they thought she would put up a fight, which she conclusively would, she knew she wouldn't come out on top but it might be enough to get them to leave her alone. Why pick the rose with the most thorns if the garden was littered with roses anyway?

When Clara looked back over her luck so far this year, based on that alone, this plan had no hope of working out. Not if all she had at her side was her kind of luck. She was fucked, well and truly fucked. The feeling only solidified as Clara watched as the woman partially smiled, partially bared her teeth like a wolf at Jack. Clara didn't back down, she would rather go out swinging then whimpering and begging.

"I like this one Jack, fiery little thing she is, all red curls and venom. I don't think she knows who we are."

They must have known each other for years, maybe even longer than Clara had been alive, because they moved forward with such a synchronization that could only come from people who had never left each others sides, or twins. Clara did not believe these two were in anyway related. Another shot of bad luck on her part, Clara wondered if life was pulling no holds bared in ending her life the most horrific way possible. Of course of all the people she could run into, a drunk, a whore, no, Clara would run into an a slightly sociopathic killer pirate couple.

All dry humor left her as they got closer, still by the entrance but too close for Clara to keep her heart from picking up its gallop in her chest. She didn't back down, didn't back away any more then she had when they had first arrived. It only fueled the grins on the couples faces. They were hyenas in human skin, circling her and grinning, the ringing, mocking laughter the only thing missing.

The rock would do no good if this came to a fight, her arms were too tired to swing it properly, and she doubted she would be able to get a solid head shot in the first place. Glancing down at the table, the corner still pressing into the skin of her hip, she spotted the small knife beside her. Not the best kind of weapon when the other two had swords, a gun would have been marvelous, but beggars can't be choosers and if she had to fight, she would rather have the knife in her hand then a rounded, sea polished and weighty rock.

Dropping the rock, narrowly missing her foot, she seized up the knife, holding it out in front of her, as far as the shackles allowed her to, aimed at the woman. She wasn't stupid, the woman was the main danger here, Clara could tell by her footsteps. Almost as elegant and graceful as a dancers, while the man simply strolled forward, boots clanking with no thought of their placement. If she was going to die in this shit hole of a tent, it would be at the womans hands.

"I may not know who you are, frankly, I don't give a shit. But you don't know who I am either. Don't come any closer. I may not be able to take you both on, but I swear, before I die, one of you will be left with a lovely knife wound for a memento... A little gift to remember me by. Maybe even a missing eyeball, who knows, it will be a surprise for all of us."

The waxed handle of the knife dug into her palm when her grasp tightened as the woman bent down, picking up something behind her foot. She stood once again and Clara reflexively swallowed when she saw the boat nail in her hand. She really hoped not to have that used against her, she really would prefer a sword rather then being skewered by a boat nail.

Clara stood proud however, the hand holding the knife not shaking a bit, not showing the actual fear building up inside her like a hailstorm. She tried to swallow it down, but it kept creeping back up her spine like ivy vines. Fuck pirates, fuck beaches, and fuck boat nails! If she ever managed to get off this island whole, she would never visit a beach again, she swore it.

The woman, twirling the boat nail in her hands, was edging closer and closer to Clara. When the woman got close enough, Knifes blade inches from her, Clara was about to draw back the knife and swing, when the woman stopped twirling the boat nail, chuckling at Claras tense posture. It made her freeze, just long enough for the woman to grab her arm faster than a blink of an eye, Boat nail raised.

Clara lifted her knee, about to kick as hard as she could when the boat nail came down... On her cuff. At the corner of her shackles, the boat nail found itself a home, knocking out a tiny nail holding the cuff together. The woman lifted the boat knife again, bringing it down on the other small nail holding the cuff of her left hand on, her fingers digging into Claras forearm.

"You were doing it wrong. Go for the actual cuff, not the chain. Won't work otherwise little red."

The cuff fell off, dangling uselessly from the chain and the one still connected to Claras other wrist. If the woman hadn't of seconds ago been threatening her, Clara would of kissed the woman for freeing her sore wrists, but she had and Clara didn't exactly like the nickname she had been gifted either.

Instead, Clara lowered her knife, letting the woman bash the other cuff off, nearly laughing as the shackles fell into the sand, kicking up a little cloud of sand as they landed. Keeping the knife in her hand just incase the tables turned and the womans only goal was to make it a fair fight, Clara rubbed at the mottled red and tingling skin of her wrists from where the skin had chaffed from the metal rubbing tightly against it.

"Thank you."

The woman just glared at her, and Clara wasn't sure whether she was snarling or smiling, or if her face was just like that naturally. Claras attention was taken way from the woman when the man named Jack stepped forward, smiling ear from ear, not nearly half as charming as Silvers smile had been.

Clara attributed it to being another one of Silvers talents, not everyone could pull of the easy going air and likeable-ness he did so effortlessly. God knows Clara couldn't. If she ever saw that man again, she would have to ask him to teach her it, it seemed to keep him out of sticky situations enough without having to go resorting to fighting like Clara had found herself doing in this new world.

"Now that is all over and we're all friends, this here is my long time associate and dear friend Anne Bonny, and I'm Jack Rackham."

Clara nodded, but then noticed Jacks expectant face, he expected her to introduce herself. Half truths had helped her so far, Clara planned to keep it that way. She had to remind herself she wasn't lying, just leaving things out from the main picture. She had been hit around the head too many times by her mother for lying, telling little fibs all children did. Lying didn't come easy to her, but to survive this place she would have to learn to squish that down deeply.

"Clara."

The woman was back to just staring at Clara from the brim of her hat, the man however didn't bother to school his expressions, one eyebrow raising high on his head in question. Jack, she should focus on Jack now the danger had simmered down. She had a chance of reading him, of garnering exactly what was running through their minds. Clara would have to be one step ahead of these people, her life depended on it, her chance of getting off this island depended on who she could find to trust or not.

"No last name?"

Clara blinked owlishly. Fiddling with her fingers, wringing her hands, she tried to play herself off as innocent as possible. If she was a dog, she would have turned her belly upwards as an act of submission. Fake submission and fake innocence, Clara even went to the lengths of putting the knife down on the table beside her grudgingly. Let them see what they wanted to, and let her see what she needed to. Anne Bonny wouldn't lower her guard, but Jack was practically an open book, one she would read thoroughly before giving anything away.

"Didn't think you had to have one in a place like this."

Play it off, play everything off. That was Claras great plan and she had to beat down the grimace that wanted to show from her half arsed plan. But it was a plan, and as bad as it was, it was the only thing Clara had to hold on to, to stop her sinking into the depths of hopelessness, her life line. She would survive this, stranger things had happened.

"No, I suppose not. Please, excuse me and my friend a moment, we're very busy and have to have a quick chat about our own crew. Don't worry, we'll be just outside the tent for a moment and back before you can miss us. Can't leave a poor defenseless girl in a place like this now can we?"

Jack wrapped his arm around Annes shoulder, smiling down at Clara, almost condescendingly. It wasn't to ease her, even if that's what Jack wanted it to do to her. It held an underlying threat of don't run, Clara heard it loud and clear. She let it slide, smiling gratefully at the two people, watching as they turned around, left the tent but stood close enough that Clara could see their shadows through the tents fabric.

As soon as they were out of sight, Claras counterfeit smile dropped. She tried to strain her ears, but could not pick up a word they were whispering to each other in hushed voices. She may not have been able to hear what they had to say to each other, likely about her, but it gave her time to fortify her nerves and think things through.

Clara ran a hand through her hair as she paced, fingers snagging through the knots her curls had tied themselves into, her mind was too busy to be concerned with the slight twinges of pain. Fuck, fuck, fuck. How the hell did she find herself in this mess? She knew they were no friends of hers, no allies. They wanted something, something important enough not to slit her from navel to hair line.

But... She could use that to her advantage. They needed her, not the other way around. She would stay sprouting off half truths, and play it by ear. They would come to her with what they wanted eventually. And if that didn't fit in with what she wanted, then she had escaped Flint, she could escape them too. And this time she had something they wanted, even if she didn't know what that thing was. The path in front of Clara was littered with dangers untold, of bloody deaths and lies, but she would dance her way through it, she had to.

She would listen, she would seem docile and trusting, she would seem like she thought of them as nothing but her saviors if that's what they wanted to see her as. She would act like she had back in London, when the customers would scowl at her, call her bastard, she would smile, duck her head in curtsy and thank them for purchasing from their bakery.

If she could skirt her way around lords, ladies and the generally scornful public, she could do the same to pirates surely? Until she found out what they did want, and how to go about it, then she would play her own cards. See how well they liked it playing Claras game and not their own. It was about time people started dancing to her tune, not her to theirs.

A smile lit up her face, eyes darting to the table in the corner of the tent. They wouldn't see it coming.

 _~OUTSIDE THE TENT~_

"Who do you think she is? She's a new face and only a few ships have docked into port over the last few days."

Jack whispered as he kicked at the sand idly, eyes flickering back to the closed tent as he thought things over. He hadn't seen the girl before, not in the whore house, not in Guthries or Guthries employ, not around the beach and not among any crew, woman members being very rare and often talked about by neighboring crews over tankards of drink they could get their hands on. The talk mainly consisting off who could and couldn't bed the member. And he had heard nothing at all about a fiery headed lass.

Seen as she was a pretty little thing, one that reminded him of porcelain dolls, rambunctious curls, rosy cheeks with an impish and delicate face, if she had been around, word of her being bedded, true or not, would have spread. She was new and new people meant new opportunities, one Jack was wanting and willing to get his hands on.

From the shackles that were around her wrist, she was needed, important, or a prize to someone. Someone who had only just came back. That left three Captains to be whittled down to one. And if it was the latter Captain he was thinking of, if they could get her on side, under thumb, well, he had just made Vanes day.

"Haven't you heard? Flints came back, and I saw that Billy kid running around Noonans place like a headless chicken 'bout an hour ago, looking like he was searching for something. Word in the tavern is Flint has two new crew mates, a cook and a girl, one he has banned from being laid hands on and seems very watchful over. My best bet is that girl in there is the same girl Flints got, the thing Billy was looking for."

Jack smiled, re-wrapped his arm around Anne, grin growing wider at the good news he was hoping to hear. But that didn't change the matter of who exactly she was, and why Flint deemed her so important to hold his crew on a leash in her regards. It would disgruntle his men, and with what Vane had already planted in his crew, a mutiny waiting to bloom, Flint must know how precarious of a situation he was in. How now was not the time to hold onto his crew with too tight of a grip, less he lose them. That led to one thing, the girl was important to Flint himself, not his crew. If they played this right, Jack wouldn't just make Vanes day, he would make his god damned year.

"A former lover? A new one? A ransom hostage? No, they don't quite fit."

Even as he spoke the words, non of them fit the small woman he had seen in the tent. No, from what Jack had heard, Flint had a misses back inland, a Barlow if he remembered correctly, a witch if he took everything the drunkards had whispered in the taverns to be true. Jack scoffed at the thought, sea-men and their superstitions. He could feel Anne nod in the crook of his arm more then he could see her do it. Running a hand up and down her arm mindlessly, he chewed on this thumbnail, sighing as thoughts and theories swam through his mind.

"If she is a part of Flints crew, important to Flint himself, she could be useful if the Singleton plan falls to pieces... Only one thing for it then."

Jack let go of Anne, backing away from his closest friend, love and confidant. He, himself may not be able to get the answers they needed, the girl seemed willing and trusting enough, but guarded. He didn't fully buy the whole innocent act she was obviously haggling, but Vane... Vane would get it out of her, innocent doll or not.

"Vane?"

Jack nodded to Anne. He was not looking forward to getting back to their camp and trying to convince a likely drinking Charles Vane that this was something they should get mixed up in, that the girl was important enough to try and take under wing. As quartermaster to the Ranger it was his job, and duty was calling, Vanes stubbornness aside.

"Vane."

Jack was about to turn around and head down the beach, turning back to Anne last second to make sure she understood to keep the girl hidden. Last thing they needed to do was parade her around before the time called for it. No, her being with them, hopefully friends with them eventually, would need to be shown at just the right time for maximum effect.

"You stay here, keep the girl under eye and hidden, I'll go fetch our illustrious Captain from our camp, I shan't be long dear."

Anne looked disgruntled at being put on guard dog duty, lip coiled before settling back over her teeth and with a sharp nod in his direction, Jack got her agreement. Between Anne and Vane, Jack was sure he would be in an early grave. Both of them often going on emotions rather than logic. No, that was Jacks job of the trio, to be the brains. And a tiring job it was.

"Fine, just hurry, girls got a hot head, not sure when she's going to explode or not. Don't want the Captain coming to a dead body of hers after dragging him away from his drink. Girls not all that she seems, even I can tell yah that. "

Reaching over and pulling her to him, he gave her a quick kiss to her cheek, and then he was off down the beach, sand trodden boots leaving prints in the sand that would soon be trampled over or blown away by the breeze. The sooner this was all over, the sooner he could get a bottle of rum in his hands. God knows by the end of the day he would likely need it with these turn of events.

With Jack gone, Anne turned back towards the tent, holding the flap open and ushering the girl out with a wave of her hand, not uttering a word. Little red had a temper, a blind man could see that, add her own temper into the equation and things would likely end in blood if one of them said the wrong words to the other.

By Clara strolling out, not speaking either, it seemed the girl was in the same like mind as Anne Bonny. Good, this wont be too hard then. She would take the girl to Noonans, pay off some of whores to keep their mouths shut about them being there. It was the best place to take the girl and let this whole thing play out. Walking the way to Mr. Noonans place, Anne stopped when she noticed little red wasn't following.

"Coming or not? Taverns down the road, don't know about you, but I could use some fucking drink."

Clara nodded, walking slowly to her side, eyes scrutinizingly taking everything in as the two walked across the beach, to a pebbled paved road and into the town lining the beach. With Anne looking ahead and away from her, Clara pressed her palm against the inside of her right sleeve, acting as if she was itching the skin there, feeling the metal of the knife strapped and hidden in the material. As she walked she could feel the pair of scissors slightly bouncing in one boot, and the pliers digging into her ankle in the other boot, both hidden from view.

A grin spread across Claras face, knowing with Jack gone, he was likely off running to get someone. It didn't matter who, it was likely the person who they worked for, the person who wanted something from her. Clara doubted it was just the two of them on this had not bought her innocent act, and neither would this new comer, but the time for playing the little lamb was over.

Clara was not good at many things, not a planner, often winging it when things came her way last second, not a skilled fighter, she could hold her own but nothing like she imagined these people could fight like to rely on that alone, not even being fully literate, only knowing how to read and write flour, milk, yeast, butter and water, bakery being her only education, but she was good at reading people. Extremely good at reading people, that would be her saving grace in this place, from the calculating looks Anne threw her way, they had guessed her angle but they had still underestimated her.

They didn't expect her to have guessed their angle like they had hers, they expected her to not pull anything or ensure her own safety, leaving it to strangers. They expected her to do what they wanted without action or questions. They expected her to believe they wanted to just help her out of the kindness of their hearts, not to have figured out they wanted something she had from her. You didn't grow up near and in the slums of London with that mindset and survive to tell the tale.

They had severely underestimated her, and that was a very bad thing to do with someone who had nothing left to lose. Clara laughed at the whole thing, Anne looking confusedly at her, Clara played it off, nodding her head to a drunk man stumbling down the road. Anne simply shook her head and turned back looking in front of them and down the path way, a large building with scantily dressed women and drunk men lazing around outside its wide, open double doors coming into Claras view.

Poor defenseless girl indeed, let the games begin. Clara was ready for it this time.

* * *

 **NEXT CHAPTER:** Clara starts figuring out how things work in Nassau, the games begin, some even Claras making and... Vane enters stage right!

 **CHAPTER NOTES:** Yes, Claras finally getting into her own. In this chapter I wanted Clara to have a mini inner war over if she should be absolutely terrified, or fed up and finished letting things just happen. Also from what I've made Clara look like, she's not someone who would make people weary from the look of her, but she will eventually use that to her advantage. In the mean time, she's going to have to fall back on her wits and intelligence to survive.

Claras background isn't lustrous or wealthy, so I can't really see someone from her background being able to read or write properly, but seen as she worked in the bakery, words relating back to that she would obviously know, and math is not a problem for her, having to make recipes and measure things out. School wouldn't have been an option for many women, only really wealthy ladies would be taught properly, and even then their studies would have been renegaded to 'womanly' things.

On to another note, I just couldn't see Anne Bonny or Jack Rackham running into a five foot odd woman and being terrified at her, but at the same time, they can pick up some things not quite right about her and Claras willing to hold her own even if she is out matched, so they're weary of her at the moment, I hope that came through in this chapter. But where they've underestimated Clara, I can tell you now Clara has underestimated Vane, even if she doesn't know who he is at this point. So expect next chapter, when Clara and Vane officially meet, to be... Explosive.

There's no Silver in this chapter, but he should be back in the game end of next chapter, or the one after. Even though he was not meant to be mentioned at all in this chapter, the little bugger popped his head in and demanded to be at least thought about. I just can't shake him off, honestly.

As for pairings, there's still a few more days until the poll closes and everything's official, but it looks like a toss up between three. **Vane/OC** , **Silver/OC** , and **Silver/OC/Vane**. Which I am extremely happy about. I've just finished re-watching season two of Black sails, and watching Jacks and Bonnys scenes again made me think of how the hell I was going to chuck Clara in the middle, if Jack chose her over Bonny, it just would not be believable, in any universe. And I want Clara to definitively be with someone at the end, not on the side of a triangle. So while a triangle may (most likely will) happen, Clara will not string people along, or dither and flip flop over her choices, she will choose someone.

So I can say this is definitely a **Silver/OC/Vane** story, however, the end game is still very much up in the air, but Silver is pipping Vane to the post, and honestly the chance to gnaw my jaws over a scene where Silver loses his Leg, Claras reaction and subsequently involvement/conversation with a bitter and weak Silver had my fingers cramping with the urge to type. What can I say? I live for the dramatic. And this pairing just screams dramatic, heart warming, slow burn, arguments, hot scenes, schemes and everything else in between. And yet Vane... The word Vane is all I really need to say on the matter of how exciting it would be to write a relationship with him in it. I am terrible with choices XD

THANK YOU all to those who reviewed, favorited and followed! Cyber hug to all! You guys keep me writing, honestly and I love you all for it.

And once more, pretty please, with sugar on top... Review? :) -GoWithTheFlo20


	6. Shut Up John!

Clara inclined back in her chair and took in the whore house known simply as Mr. Noonans from the corner table her and Anne were seated at. Drunk men were pressing up against any available woman that came within arms reach of them, even the poor girls who were trying desperately to get from point A to point B with loaded silver platters of alcohol and food. The girls didn't seem to mind, laughing and winking at the men when they jostled into them, the men taking that as invitation enough to try and drag them off to a dark corner, or the rooms that were situated up a wide and winding staircase in the corner of the expansive lower tavern, some women even ditching their job altogether to take 'care' of the touchy customers.

Anne Bonny was sitting to the right of her, hunched over a steaming plate of some kind of pink meat. She didn't bother with the cutlery, choosing to stab chunks out of the slab of meat with her knife and cramming it into her mouth. The woman hadn't spoken to Clara since they had been on that beach, but at the same time Clara hadn't bothered with speaking to Anne, she found she needed some quiet time, time to relax partially, surely when Jack and the newcomer came, her new peace would be shattered irrevocably, until then she was willing to soak up as much tranquility as she could in the time limit she had.

A man and a woman, locked at the lips and most presumable in other places, camouflaged by ruffled skirts and un-tucked shirts , slammed into their table, before twirling back around and leaning on the table next the them, hands frantic as they pressed into one another, the preening giggling coming from the woman making Clara want to claw her ears off.

Clara would have turned her head away from the affectionate display happening a foot away from them, pretended it wasn't going on and she couldn't hear their mutual cringe worthy groans, but something wooden and glittering metal caught her eye.

Pitching her gaze back to Anne Bonny, she saw the woman was still wrapped up with having her share of food, not even the slightest bit disturbed at the couple who had bashed into their table. Turning her attention back to the couple, Clara balanced one foot on the ground, using the other to kick off from the table leg, balancing on the back legs of her chair, she reached behind her and snatched up the prize she was eyeing from the mans undone belt.

Clara managed to land back onto the front legs of her chair primly, conceal the prize for her efforts under her legs before Anne even twisted around to her to give her a scathing glare. The man behind them too caught up with the woman to notice Claras light fingers and a belt much lighter now.

"What the fuck are you doing now?"

Clara smiled cheerily as she chuckled, flapping her hands in front of her face, she tried to look as embarrassed as possible. The heat of Mr. Noonans place adding a hot scarlet to her cheeks that she hoped portrayed a flush, and not a mixture of sunburn and over heating that it truly was.

"Lost my balance for a moment, I'm sorry."

Anne sneered, pulled her plate closer and dug in faster to her meal, eyes now wavering between her food and Clara. Clara scooted her chair into the table more, hoping her legs and the shade under the table would help hide the Flintlock gun she had managed to swipe off the extremely busy man next to her, Annes added caution to Clara well worth the gun.

She made sure the handle was the pointed outwards for speedy excess in case things went down hill and Clara found she would need to fight her way out of it. She prayed it wouldn't, but lately Clara had learned to be always prepared for the worst, things had the tendency to escalated quickly when and where pirates were involved.

A murmuring of noise erupted at the door, some drunkenly slurring their hello, some who were sober enough started edging away from the door, heading for shadier spots to the tavern, and some who were just too busy and had too pretty of a girl on their lap to take notice and care. But Clara did notice, and she did care, especially when she saw Jack Rackham enter through the bustling crowd, leading someone to their table in the far end of the tavern.

Rackham looked much like he had earlier, sans his peculiar glasses. The other man however captured her interest and refused to let it go. If she had thought Captain Flint was intimidating, then she felt like this man was the devil. He didn't walk, didn't stroll or stumble his way through, no, the man prowled. Even the drunks somehow managing to know when to bumble out the way of his path.

He wasn't the tallest, the most scarred or the bloodiest man she had seen on the island, but his presence made up for all that. His hair long, half tied back from his angular and sharp featured face, was decorated with beads and plaits in a few locks. His clothes were well worn but cleaner than most of the people she had seen. A green top that clung to his torso, leather trousers with a thick stomach belt and the ever common leather boots. His wrists were bound in bracelets, rings on his fingers and even a silver hoop through one of his ears. Clara had never seen a man quite like him, not in London, not on Flints ship, and not on the island from the little pieces of it she had seen in her run and subsequent hiding.

With startling clarity, she realized she may have made a huge mistake. One that could very likely end her life. She had expected Jack to bring a drunkard, or even an older man she could pull the wool over, not someone like this guy, anyone would have been better than this man. This man, because he was definitely no boy, looked like he would sooner cleave through her throat with his bare teeth than swallow any petty excuses or re-buffs she would throw around. Shit. What had she done?

All too soon, Jack was pulling out a chair to her left, sitting down in a fluff while the unknown man sat opposite her, his eyes landing on her and making her want to shrink away from his gaze. Instead, Clara shuffled her hand under her leg, grasping firmly on to the handle of her hidden gun, giving her a small measure of comfort under the stare of the predator masquerading as a man.

He stared for a few moments, Rackham still faffing around while Anne kept her eyes and mind solely on her food. Then he reached around his waist, unclipping one of his thinner belts around his waist, lifted the leather and gun holstered on it, and laid it on the table in between the both of them, fingers lingering on his gun before he pulled his hands away, wrapped his thick arms around his chest, kicked back in his chair and rose an eyebrow at her in challenge.

"There's no need for weapons here. So now is the time to disarm yourself, I can see the knife in your sleeve. Take it out."

Claras hand automatically jumped to what she thought was her well covered-up knife, her hand coming away from her gun. Grudgingly she pulled her sleeve up, untied the knife from the strip of string she had tied it to her arm with, and dropped it in front of her. Anne had stopped eating, looking at her with new found suspicion with the appearance of her knife, even Jack seemed surprised at the fact she had hidden a weapon on her. The man, still staring at her, raised the scarred brow even higher.

Clara had the unreasonable fear that he knew about the gun she had stashed under her legs, but she refused to give that up without proof that he knew of it. Instead, she huffed, reached into her boot, pulled out the pair of pliers she had shimmied down there and chucked them onto the table with her knife. If she couldn't keep her knife, she sure as hell wasn't giving up the scissors. The man rounded on Jack, tapping his splayed fingers on the stained table.

"I thought you said the girl was no problem? That she had no weapons on her Jack? So how has a slip of a woman gotten a knife and pliers passed you and Anne? Without you two even questioning it?"

Clara wanted to shout at the man, tell him she was anything but a slip of a woman but kept her mouth shut, settling for a scowl aimed his way. Jack spluttered for a while, when a busty barmaid sashayed by him, he snatched up the tankard from her platter, downing the rum in the wooden cup, winking at the woman, before answering the unknown mans questions.

"I honestly thought she was unarmed, but I did warn you she wasn't all as she seemed."

Claras hands tightened into fists on the table, as she watched them banter, totally ignoring her. Her grip on her anger slipped and her tongue was moving before she could stall it or stop it all together.

"I'm right here, so I would like it if you actually behaved like I was. Do you really think I was dumb enough to come to some unknown place, to meet some unknown pirate without at least having something to fall back on? What the fuck do you take me for?"

The unknown man turned towards her, hand lifting up from the table to run down his stubbled cheek as he regarded her with an expression she couldn't name. Great, another person she couldn't fully read, one she needed to be able to read to make it through this unscathed. But then he smiled, as if she had given him a surprised present, it only made the fire in her eyes blaze hotter.

"Obviously not what I originally thought you was. But that begs the question of why you did come and not run for it the first chance you got. Jack tells me your names Clara, you're new here, I'm betting you're from Flints crew, who only pulled in today, or part of his last hunt."

The man leant forward in his seat, elbows resting on the table as he scanned her, head tilted to the side as he carried on his regards of her and his thoughts on what she was doing there.

"But here you are, away from Flint and his crew. You ran, I can't see Flint just letting you wonder off, It wouldn't have been easy to get away from him, but it was worth the risk to you. So tell me Clara, why risk it? Why come here of all places when you had only just broken free?"

He twirled a ring around his middle finger with his thumb as he eyed her calculatingly. Clara tried to think of a way to wriggle herself out of answering, but gave up. The man had recited her actual tale without her having to say a word. What would he be able to figure out when she did speak? But she couldn't keep quiet, they wouldn't allow her to for starters.

"Your two friends didn't give me much of an option. I was cornered, shackled and had no weapon but a little knife. I'm not afraid of dying, god knows I've faced it enough over the last months, but I don't see the point in it if I have a chance to avoid that outcome. But you already know that, you already know the basics of me, so, the real question here isn't who I am or why I came, it's why you want to know so badly."

The man smiled toothily. Not condescendingly like Jack, not wolf-esque like Anne, but that damned smile as if he found something highly amusing he was considering keeping. But Clara was no bird in a cage, the man could try but Clara wouldn't leave him unmarred from the effort. She hadn't escaped Flint just to end up in another prison of another pirates making.

"Smarter and more dangerous then you look, that's a mix you don't often find on this island. One I admire, and just for that, I'll be honest with you. I have an investment with knowing the ins and outs of Flints ship. A girl turns up, not a prize, not a ransom hostage but still offered safety from the crew, and well, it gives me questions I need answers to. So tell me and we might be able to help each other out."

Clara bit the inside of her cheek, feeling like she was in a match of verbal chess with the man. Who could out think the other? She now knew what he wanted, but didn't know what she would gain in return, she needed those answers before she went any further.

"And how exactly would you help me out?"

The man chuckled, his voice already deep and raspy, with his laughter Clara could feel it rattle her bones. Another thing she had not seen or heard before she could cross off her checklist. Who was born with a voice that felt like sandpaper and silk wrapped in one?

"You ran. That's no question. You want away from Flint, and there is no one here who knows this island as good as I do. I have authority here. If I order you to be left alone, you will be. If I order you to be dragged back to him by the scruff of your neck, that is what's going to happen. Making an enemy of me is not a good idea Clara, not when we've been so nice to each other so far."

It wasn't a threat per say, more of a warning. But it still made Claras anger flash up and stamp down on any fear she had. He may be crowned king of this island, he may be god here, but he wasn't Claras king, wasn't Claras god, and it was best for him to know that now.

"Try it, I dare you."

Claras hand slithered under the table, gripping the gun once more. The mans own hand went for his gun, and before she could think things through, see the smile playing on his face, Clara had pulled the gun out, flicked down the hammer and had it aimed at his head. Only once did his hand go for his drink and not his gun did she know what he had done. He was testing her, seeing how far she was willing to go and now she had pushed her queen into the open, ready for his rook, his knight or himself to push her down.

Anne dropped the knife to her food, hands going straight for her swords, Jack jumped back, his chair skidding across the oak floor with a screech, that smug, big bastard smirked at her. Clara debated whether to just pull the trigger and be done with it all. Anne went to pull her sword free, only for the mans hand, held up towards Anne, stopped her from drawing the metal out into the open. He lent back into his chair, arms spread along the back of it as if he didn't have a care in the world.

"You really aren't afraid are you? Not one bit, I can see it in your eyes. Not many people have the balls to pull a gun out on me, let alone hold it on me without their hand shaking even the tiniest bit. I like that. Now lower the gun, and lets get down to business."

Clara lowered the gun down slowly, laying it flat on the table but close to her, pulling her hand away but still keeping her index finger on the gun. Before the shocked Jack could say anything, or the man could rile her up any further, Clara decided it was time to come clean, as clean as she could without giving up her last name. He obviously had history with Flint, bad history by the looks of it. She didn't trust him not to just put a bullet through her head when he found out her name.

"I was on a ship, heading to family in Boston. Captain Flint boarded the ship and decided against killing me, so here I am. There really isn't that much more to it."

Apart from the bombshell that Flint was her father. But she pushed that down and away. She hadn't come to grips with that herself yet, and if she hadn't had grasped that herself yet, hopefully no one at this table had thought of that possibility. Jack was the one to speak this time.

"And pray tell, why did Flint, the very same Captain of the Walrus who has done far worse, not kill you or give you to his men? That's the thing that isn't adding up dear."

Clara swallowed, trying to come up with something that wasn't a full out lie, something to get them to back off from that one question she couldn't, and wouldn't answer. Clara pulled her hands away from the gun, putting them underneath the table so they wouldn't see her fiddling fingers as she tried to come up with a plausible answer. It was a twitch she had since a little girl, one Mary had told her once that always gave away when she was lying. Clara wasn't going to make it easy for the pirates to figure her out, not when they were already doing a grand job at it without her help.

"Captain Ludford... The Captain of my ship talked him out of it."

Clara could have grimaced hard if she wasn't so focused on the man in front of her, the evasive answer and lie sounded weak even to her own ears. Jack scoffed, slammed his hands down on the table pulling himself out from his chair turning to the man who was watching her, watching her reactions. Anne stood too, but Clara thought it was more out of Jack standing up then anything else.

"This is pointless Vane, the girls obviously deranged, or lying. Flint wouldn't risk his crew, his ship, for her. Not in these times, because some Captain talked him out of it."

Vane, so that was his name. It suited him, confidant but reminding Clara of the vessels pumping blood around her body. She was sure this Vane had seen plenty of blood in his life too. He regarded her before sighing, nodding to Jack and standing, giving her one last look, he spoke.

"She ain't lying, but she's obviously not telling us the full story. Grab her Jack, she's coming with us."

Jack reached around the table, snagging her arm and pulled her out from her chair sharply. Clara reacted on instinct when her back met his front, bending her arm, she slammed it behind her, she heard Jack wheeze and let her go, she thought she may have clothes lined him by the sound of him coughing and spluttering for breath.

She began to bolt for the door of Noonans, but felt a weight slam into her back, sending her, the table and the weight on her back crashing to the floor. The air in her lungs left her chest in a groaning huff. Dazed slightly from her head banging into the floor, she felt large hands trying to flip her over before her sight righted itself and she could see properly again, instead of fuzzy colors and looming shadows.

Vane was crouched over her prone form, a lock of hair having come out from the throng holding it back, brushing across his face. Clara snapped to, punching and kicking as he tried to heave her off the floor, he grunted when her boot made contact with his stomach, and a thrill of triumph ran through Clara.

"Stop struggling!"

It only made her fight harder, adrenaline bursting through her veins, aches and pains from the days and weeks passed fading to the back of her mind, when all she could focus on was getting out from under Vane and far away from him.

"Get off!"

His forearm shot forward and pinned her down to the floor by her neck, his face inches from her own, his hair falling around their heads, curtaining them from the rest of the word. A plan formed in her mind and Clara made her body flop to the floor in the pretense of giving up a hopeless fight, her stop in struggling made him freeze momentarily from wrestling both her fists into one of his callused hands.

Clara jolted back into movement, she bent her leg around his, bending the knee and with a more than a little flexibility, she dived her hands into her boot, snatching out the pair of sharp scissors.

Holding on to one handle, she flipped them open with a flick of her wrist and moved her hand till she was holding the middle, blades pointing out on either side of her closed fist, ignoring the stinging pain as the blades cut into the skin of her fingers, she brought the scissors swooping towards Vanes neck.

He turned his head in time to spot the shine of metal zooming towards him, swearing loudly as he jerked away, but unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on your perspective, not enough as the scissors tore through the shirt of his upper chest, scoring the skin and leaving a thin bloody line in there wake. It wasn't deadly, hardly deeper than a paper cut, but it snapped him out of his surprise, and as Clara went for him again, he jumped off her, making Clara crouch and follow his movements to have any hope of the scissors reaching him.

He expertly dodged last second, grabbed her wrist as it swooped past his face and Slammed her hand into the wall beside them from where they had fallen. Clara grunted out in pain as the scissors dug in deeper to the cut on her fingers, making her drop the scissors in reflex, blood running down her palm in warm rivulets.

He growled at her, heat from his eyes nearly leveling her own anger in their wake when they made eye contact. But Clara found instead of making her fear for her life, her own fire burned hotter when reflected back from his blue eyes, like a whirlpool of anger dragging them both down into its depths.

"I fucking warned you Clara."

He growled out, his muscles tensing as he prepared to do something, and Clara found herself out of room to run, out of plans and back ups. Then Vane and Clara heard the distinct sound of a gun clicking as the hammer was pushed back, her own gun, the one she had left on the table landing between her spread legs, Clara scooped it up with her free hand without a second thought, then looked up to find the origin of the noise of the gun.

Silver stood behind Vane, Barrel of his gun pressed against the back of Vanes head. His hair was as messy as the last time she saw him, his blue jacket however was missing this time, instead leaving him in his shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. She looked into Silvers eyes and he gave her a shaky smile, even as Vane tensed even more and his fingers dug deeper into her wrist, still pressed up against the wall, Clara did wince this time as the pain went shooting up her arm.

"Now normally I would not get involved in situations like these, but Flints on his way right this second and if he finds me here, having done nothing... Well, you can see my predicament. Plus that girl you're currently fighting with saved my life, things like that are owed back, and I would rather not keep debt with a woman who decides picking a fight with a man twice her size is a good idea. So, how about we all calm down, back away and call it a day?"

Vane stopped looking at her, slowly twisting his head until the barrel was pressed up against his forehand, blazing eyes solely on an uneasy Silver. Vane let go of her wrist, and slowly stood. Silver kept the barrel to his head, even as he swallowed deeply from what Clara guessed was Vanes expression.

"You ain't gonna pull that fucking trigger on me boy."

Silver smiled one of those smiles, all warm and happy, but Clara could see the slight twitch in his jaw, telling her he wasn't as calm or as happy as he portrayed himself to be. Clara staggered up, using the wall to keep her balance as her muscles screamed in protest, her cut fingers still bleeding heavily and sending volts of pain up her arm and spine. Claras body had never hurt as much as it did in that moment.

"Well I would hope not! No ones really hurt, maybe egos,but not something we need to resort to violence for. So me and Clara will just be leaving and we can forget all about thi-..."

A shiny sword slid across Silvers throat, pressing tightly into the skin as his smile dropped and he gulped, his eyes glancing down at the sword poised over his neck. Clara could see Anne Bonnys hat and eye peaking out from behind him. With Vanes grip gone, Clara pushed herself away from the wall, skidded forward, raised her gun and aimed it over Silvers shoulder at Anne Bonnys face, Claras own face screwed up in a snarl of her bubbling rage.

"Don't even fucking think about it!"

Silvers eyes flickered towards hers, he lowered his gun from Vane, chuckling as he dropped his gun to the floor, the gun clanging loudly when it landed, and held his hands up in surrender.

"Clara don't. Just drop the gun, I'm sure these good fellows are reasonable and will le-"

"Shut up John!"

Clara didn't let him finish. She may not now Silver well, but she knew enough. The man prized his life above all else. He could have easily slipped out of the tavern instead of intervening before Flint got here, if he was even coming and it weren't a lie Silver had said to get them out of this. He could have been merrily down the road to another tavern without a second thought about her.

Instead, he had stepped in, tried to help her out, and for some reason, him being threatened for her life didn't sit well in her stomach, it didn't feel right at all. No, it was okay gambling with her own life, she would be the only one to pay the price, but not other peoples lives, and she sure as hell wasn't letting Anne Bonny pull a sword on the only person she could half way say was her friend in this place. Whether he was friends with her for his own ends or not.

Clara felt metal pressed to her temple, flicking her eyes over quickly before going back to Anne, she saw Jack with his gun aimed at her, expression beyond angry at her threatening Anne. For seconds that felt like a life time, no one moved, no one spoke, no one seemed to breathe as they all waited for someone to make the first move, all wondering which one had the hair trigger finger.

Then, once again a click broke the silence of the group, of the tavern people who hadn't fled but stayed to watch. By now Claras hand was bleeding badly, the blood trickling down her raised arm, her shirt sleeve soaking it up and making the red bloom throughout the cotton and trail down to her elbow. She didn't dare take her attention away from Anne, even as a voice she knew too well spoke loudly, echoing around the silent room.

"I would appreciate it if you lowered your fucking gun from my daughters head, before I decide to redecorate Noonans with your crews blood."

Every one apart from Clara snapped to the new comers, Flint stood behind Jack with his gun out, a blonde woman she had never seen before beside him, looking bewilderedly around at the group all in a standoff, Clara could see from the corner of her eye Gates and Billy by the door, other pirates from Flints crew she could recognize but not put a name to with them.

With a nod from Vane, Jack lowered his gun from her temple, Anne sheathed her sword, only then making Clara lower her own gun. But it was Silver who broke the new silence enshrouding the group, voice raspy and higher pitched than usual.

"Your daughter?!"

* * *

 **NEXT CHAPTER:** The calm down from the fight, an offer, and Flint takes Clara to see someone important who holds secrets about Claras life...

 **CHAPTER NOTES:** Well, here's chapter six! I really couldn't help myself, once the idea of seeing Silver, Clara and Vane in a standoff planted itself in my head, it wouldn't leave. I also thinks it's a good omen for the story, the triangle that's eventually going to form between the three of them, although Flint was the one to stop the actual standoff, the metaphorical one wont be solved so easily.

 **Vane** and Silver were extremely hard to write in this chapter. With Vane, I wanted an attraction to be there, but underneath all the drama that's going on. Like the whole faces inches apart from each other, the 'heat' which Clara calls 'anger' bounces off each other and climbs and the trying to size the other up. I had to re-write his lines a couple of times before I was remotely happy with their outcome. Honestly, I'm really trying to stick as close to the characters as possible, and the dialog I write for them I hope comes across as sounding like them.

I remember in one episode, when Vanes explaining about how he first saw Eleanor and she didn't seem scared, she only smiled at him and it picked his interest in her. Clara is a fiery character, and although Clara isn't all smiles and rosy cheeks for him, I think he would actually admire her fiery attitude and quick wit (when then comes into play) more than smiles and flirting. Although he will get annoyed at her temper in later chapters ;)

As for **Silver** , well I know it seems a bit outrageous that he would throw himself in the middle of the fight for Clara to help save her, but it wasn't totally un -self serving. This is set around the time that the crew shoved him into the brothel, so if something happened to Clara while people could say he was there, well he knows what Flint would do and he's trying to seem as respectable and as likeable in Flints eyes as possible, to stay underneath the radar because he has part of the schedule and he wants to keep it that way. What better way to do that then to save the girl that the Captain obviously wants protected? Well, that's the way I see Silvers thought process going.

Well, I hope you liked this chapter, a big, **HUGE THANKYOU** to those who have favorited, followed and reviewed. You guys are the best. And an extra thank you to those who reviewed, this chapters for you guys because you keep me imagining and typing!

I hope you guys liked this new installment of metamorphosis, please review if you have time, they make me smile :) - _GoWithTheFlo20_


	7. The Yellowed Room

The atmosphere in the eerily quiet Noonans was palpable, almost as oppressive as the standoff had been, and all of it was thanks to Flints outing of Claras parentage. She knew why he did it, it was the only sure way to get Vane to back off, or at least stall him for the amount of time to get out of the whore house, but that did not mean Clara had to like it one bit.

No one moved, only sent each other stone hard glares, daring each other to do something that would kick everything off again. Well, everyone apart from Silver, who was in some sort of shock, eyebrows high and mouth flapping open to speak only to clamp shut a second later. If it weren't such dire circumstances, Clara would have fully soaked in and enjoyed the look playing on his face, when would be the next time she would see the silver tongued Silver quite so adamantly displaced and wordless?

The first to move was Flint, snatching her up by the back of her shirt and dragging her backwards, Clara stumbled along with his long strides as they made for the door of Noonans, highlighted by the boiling sun in the periwinkle sky, so bright was the light that Clara couldn't make out the outside world, only see the laughing shadows that passed by the blinding rectangular light.

Clara glanced back at the people behind her, the ones she could have died at the hands of. They were congregating around Vane, Anne and Jack pulling close to his sides as they whispered. Vane however was still looking at her, and she saw his mouth move, his words lost in the distance between them but Clara didn't need to hear them to know the words. _I'll see you later_. a threat, a promise, a poisoned gift wrapped in a bow. This wasn't the end of their impromptu fight, far from it, and a little part of Clara, the part that reveled in danger and arguments, the part she always tried to push back and lock down, liked the threatening promise of retribution. _Let him try_ , Clara thought.

Silver too was moving, close by them as they made it to the door. His confusion was gone now, instead he was frowning as he eyed her and Flint, drawing comparisons and conclusions between the two people. Clara didn't like it, didn't want the parallels to be drawn. She was nothing like the man and Silver was wasting his time in trying to un-earth them. The blonde woman was also with them, not looking at anyone as she followed the trio out the door.

The small part of the crew that had followed Flint to Noonans parted as they pushed passed, closing ranks automatically as they passed by the big boned men. Obviously trying to portray a 'united' front to Vane and anyone else who held the thought of following the angry red-head, who resembled more of a rankled, spitting kitten then the terror of a growling tiger, and the more imposing and rageful Captain.

Flint led her down the busy road, his fingers still wrapped up tightly in her shirt. The blonde strode to Flints other side, only now choosing to watch the two of them wearily from the corner of her eyes, expression calculating and guarded. If Clara wasn't so disastrously tired, hurt and bleeding, had she been in the throes of her building anger, blinding her from reason, Clara would have tried fighting her way out from her dilemma. Away from Flint, away from Silver, and away from the blonde. But she was tired, she was hurt and bleeding and for once, fighting was on the last on her list of things to do.

"You can talk this out at my establishment. Better there than out in the public where god knows who can listen in."

The womans voice was punctual, even with the smooth English floral to her straightforward words that left no room for debate. Clara felt like this woman wasn't used to being told no. Flint didn't stop his frog march, or loosen the hold on Claras top that had seen better days long past, in fact, it made him march faster, hold tighter, but he did spare the woman a nod in her general direction.

"I'm sorry, but is no one going to answer my question? The one that's probably running through every ones mind right this minute? Clara is your daughter? When the hell did that happen?"

Silvers hushed but frantic voice brought Flint to a stop, and inadvertently Clara too. They had just turned to head down a side road, and Flint leveled a look at Silver that even had Clara grimacing for him. The kind of look that would have been able to melt brick or whither grass. Clara felt Flints fingers bind further into her shirt, digging into her back uncomfortably.

"I'm thought that it was self explanatory, surely I don't need to explain the reproductive system with you? What are you still doing here? Go back to Noonans, to the beach, or whatever place you want to dwell in, just make sure you're back on my ship by morning. Until then, I couldn't be less worried about your inane questions that do not concern you."

Flint didn't give Silver time to answer, most likely not caring for more questions that would follow, he pulled Clara down the road again, the blonde woman still dutifully following. Clara turned her head slightly as they skirted through the crowds, grasping the sight of a befuddled and annoyed Silver before he disappeared from view entirely, his hands on his hips as they made eye contact before it was snatched away from both of them by whitewashed buildings and flocks of dirtied men and sultry women.

Soon, Clara was herded into a new tavern, more men than women in this one, most if not all pirates, making her feel claustrophobic on top of the mirage of other emotions that were fighting to come out on top. Fear and anger were in the lead at the moment, but sadness could still pull through and win. Her chance of escape was gone, well and truly lost like rust in the wind. Did she even have freedom to begin with? Or was it all a construct she had painted in her own mind to make herself believe she had something to protect, to hoard, a goal to reach?

Her mind was swirling, jumbled pieces and half thought out thoughts she would rather not have in her mind, adding fuel to the bonfire that was her emotions. Clara was distractedly led into a slightly yellowed room, from age or paint, Clara could not tell you. A desk stood in front of boarded windows and a balcony, a model of an exotic building made from cherry wood was placed by the door, and before Clara could take in more of the room, Flint shoved her inside harshly. Her knees felt like ripples in a pond, the muscles getting tired of holding her up anymore. When was the last time she had eaten properly? Or slept more than two moves of the small hand on a broken clock?

"I'll leave you two to it. My office should be fine enough for... Whatever is to follow. Come find me later Flint, we have much to discuss. There's bandages and rum in the top left draw."

She sent Flint a look from the gilded doors entryway, one of those looks that represented a secret being passed between one precipitant to the other, hopeless for any outsiders to decipher its code. Clara wanted to tell the blonde she didn't give a fuck, not one care about whatever she found to be so important to drive the point home to Flint. They could talk about it in front of her if they wished it, and she would not register a single word. Clara was swept up in too much of her own failings, her own plans and regards to unfair circumstances to add whatever they planned to her own heady mix. She was so very, very tired.

The woman, both hands braced against their respective door handles, pulled the doors shut with a gentle swoop. So soft was the noise that Clara wanted to re-open them and slam the blasted things shut. This place, this island, there was nothing soft about it. No easy sounds to lull you under, no soft gestures from equally soft folks, no soft breeze for sun crisped and blistered skin. In her short time on the island, Clara knew that this place was harsh, brutal despite all its beauty. The weather, the land, more importantly its inhabitants that called it home, all harsh in their own ways and meanings. The soft noise of the door swooping shut did not belong, it was a lie to the senses, a lie to Clara. In her over exhausted state, the littlest things that normally wouldn't bleep on Claras radar, seemed to be the most foreboding.

"Sit down before you fall down."

Claras tongue felt heavy in her mouth, dry too, so much so she, Clara the ever mouthy and argumentative, couldn't bring herself to argue a moot point against Flint. Even if his tone was as harsh as a blizzards wind and his words clipped short. All of a sudden she was filled with such a longing, an gnawing desire to have Mary with her, her mother would have loved seeing her speechless, but then she thought of what Mary would think if she was here to see the blood crusting and flaking on her arm and humor arose in Clara.

The woman would have ate Flint alive for putting Clara in this predicament, then her equally hot headed mother would have likely hunted down Vane and skinned the bastard, saving Claras own ugly demise for last for getting involved in the first place. But Mary wasn't here, Mary was dead, and the real word took the humor away from Clara with a vicious tug. Clara fumbled at a carved, plushed velvet chair, flopping into it with less grace than a fish on land, nausea bubbling up in her gut at her thoughts.

She watched Flint cautiously, half believing that she had finally pushed the pirate too far and any second he would explode. Instead he walked over to the expansive desk, yanked the top left draw open and spilled out sterile bandages and a full bottle of rum onto a group of scattered papers. He went to pick them back up after shutting the draw, only to clock sight of her, stall, and slam his fists down onto the table with a resolute bang, eyes aimed at her like bullets, as cold and hard as the real rounded metal would have been.

"What the fuck were you thinking? Were you even thinking? Do you know what kind of men live on this island? What Vane would have done to you if I had not been told of what was transpiring? Jesus fucking Christ Clara!"

Claras voice was flat and monotone when she spoke, but as soon as the words passed her dry and cracked lips, did she want to suck them back in. This man, her supposed father, had saved her life from Vanes hands. She may not know pirates as much as other people did, but she knew his treatment of her, on his ship, on this island, was more than generous in the type of life he led. In some ways, she was lucky it was Flint who had commandeered Captain Ludfords ship, she knew this.

But he had trapped her, backed her into a corner, and like an animal she had reacted on instinct, to get the hell out of there. His main strike against his case was he had taken away her chance at fulfilling Mary's dying wish, the last thing a dying woman wanted, and for that and that alone, she could not and would not forgive him.

"What? Kill the crew I am with? Kill the Captain and his crew that had been nothing but courteous to me, when they needed not be? Shackle me and drag me to a place you find me so lacking to survive in? Because to me, that sounds all too familiar. Don't question what I was thinking, question what the fuck you were thinking."

His fingers dug into the glossed wood, and then he lashed out, flinging his arm in an arching swipe across the desk, sending papers, quills and books tumbling to the floor. Then he looked at her once more, and he must of seen something on her face or in her eyes, the regret of her words, her tiredness, her bloodied arm, it didn't matter because his anger dissolved instantaneously and he sagged into the skewed high back chair of the desk, his elbow leaning on one arm as he rested his hand over his closed eyes.

"It wasn't supposed to be like this, non if it. We were meant to be back in Wiltshire, Miranda reading to you next to a lit fire place, bows in your hair and pretty silk dresses. Me watching while Thomas..."

He choked on the last word, sounding to much like a broken whisper than the name Clara had heard, but hear it she did. His hand moved away from his eyes, clenching firmly as he brought it over his mouth, peering at her as his knuckles turned white from the pressure. She didn't know these people, didn't even know the man in the very same room as her, didn't know the full story.

"Then tell me! All you have done is tell me you are my father, and then leave. No words, no explanations. Nothing. You say I shouldn't have ran, but how could I not when I don't even know anything apart from what you did to Captain Ludford and his crew. I refuse to be a prisoner. Not by you or any one else."

Not when Mary had done all she had to ensure Clara had a happy future, even if by now it would never come to pass. That caused a lump to swell in her throat, blocking her breathing. That's what this had all been, she knew it was unlikely she would fully escape from this island, it was a last ditch attempt, half dreamed up to fulfill the dying wishes of the person who was, and forever would be closest to her. Clara had failed, she had failed Mary. That left a sour and spoiled feeling in her mouth and core of her being. The lump grew but Clara refused to shed any tears. If Mary was here, in her shoes, she would not cry and neither would Clara.

Flint heaved himself out of his chair, plucking the knocked over bottle of rum and bandages up as he walked around the table and made his way to her, half way there, he dragged the other chair closer to Clara, and once close enough, sat down. Reaching over, Flint picked up her hurt hand, he ripped a part of the bandage off, doused it in rum and pressed and swiped it along the wound decorating her fingers. Clara hissed and tried to pull her hand away, but he held steadily. Once finished with wiping away the massed blood and cleaning the wound, he rapped her hand in the gauze, knotting it tightly, but once finished completely, he did not let go, instead he ran his thumb gently over her hand, deep in thought.

"There is someone you need to meet. Someone you would have already gotten your answers from if you had not foolishly ran off. You were never my prisoner Clara, not for a second. The same can not be said if Vane or anyone else on this island had managed to get a hold of you. I would remember that next time if any thoughts of running off cross your mind. Come."

Clara didn't want to move, her bones ached and her eyes were drooping, but the curiosity, the chance to find out the answers to the riddles that plagued her had her moving with him towards the door. Answers first, sleep later. They left the yellow room and made it half way across the tavern and nearly to the exit before they were intercepted by the blonde woman, now an angry frown marring her pretty features when she spotted were they were headed.

"Where are you going? We need to talk Flint, I need to know about the schedu-"

"Later."

Flint didn't spare the woman a glance, but Clara did. She saw the way her cheeks heated in anger at being re-buffed so easily and coldly. Saw the flash in her eyes that promised of hot insults. That's when Clara knew what kind of person she was. The blonde, she wasn't like Vane, Flint or Silver, Clara could read this woman easily enough. She was self important. She believed she deserved respect, and maybe so, Clara did not know her.

But Clara had seen that face before, seen that glimmer twinkling in her eyes, that stance of squared shoulders and heated cheeks of indignation. Clara had seen it on the pompous Lords and ladies that would pass her in the dingy streets of London. The ones who believed they were above all else, that things had to be done their way, self centered, egotistical in a sense of their own self worth.

Clara did not blame the woman, she had been on the island a day, she knew not how long the blonde had been there, but a place like this? To live in it, to survive, you needed thick skin. But Clara was smart enough to also know that this self importance, this demand to have everything her way, would no doubt lead to troubling problems for the woman. For these men were pirates, and pirates did not listen when someone told them what to do. Something Clara and the pirates had in common, as grudgingly Clara would admit.

Clara almost felt sorry for the woman, if she had not sent such a vicious glare at her and Flint as they carried on walking out of the tavern without another word. Yes, either that woman would be a problem to herself, or she would be a problem to someone else and Clara hoped it would not be her. She already had to juggle Flint and Vane. God knows where Silver fit into everything, he was in a category all on his own.

Claras feet dragged as she obediently followed Flint to a stall of some sort, poles dangerously tilted and fence in shambles, ropes tied to the fence leading to the neck and reigns of neighing horses. Flint stopped in front of it, fingers deftly untying a horse in black reigns, still holding the rope he went to untie another, and Clara found herself speaking in a squeaky voice. She did not like outing her own weaknesses, voicing her inabilities, that was no secret. But in this case, she would have to swallow her pride to save herself from a fall.

"I can't... I've never ridden a horse before."

She felt like a child in this place, surrounded by all sides by people who had done things, lived through things she had never dreamed of. It was an uncomfortable feeling, one she hadn't felt in a long time, being shoved back into the tight skin of a miscreant child. But here, she knew she would face that a lot, face it until she did learn, she did do the things she had never dreamed of before. Like killing the cook, like running away, like that fight with Vane. One day and Clara realized she had changed so fundamentally that it jarred her. Who would she be in a weeks time? In a year if she was still breathing and on this god forsaken island?

Flint glanced at her, something storming in his eyes before he pushed it down, gave her a sharp nod and only pulled out the chestnut horse with the white splodge on the underside of its neck.

When the horse was on the other side of the fence, front leg pushing and stomping into the sandy floor in excitement, Flint turned around and with no warning, lifted Clara up by her waist and pushed her towards the front of the horse, one she had mentally named Humbert, forcing her to lift her leg and slide on. Then with a flick of his long coat, and a pull on the reigns, he swung himself behind Clara and settled on the horse.

His arms came around her, pulling her closer so she didn't fall off and with a pull of the reigns, Humbert turned right and they were off. Clara bounced in her seat as they took off, the back of her thighs hitting into strong fury muscle. The pain in her body heightened at being jostled so much, but her mind was taken away from it when they came out from the crowded buildings and picked up speed.

Her hair, as red as a little robins chest, danced in the wind. She clutched onto Flints arm that was held in front of her. With the wind in her face, the golden sands transforming to dewy grass that was greener than any she had spied before, and the abyss of blue skies made her feel like the hawk she had spotted once back home when she was eight, watching aptly as it took flight, wishing and later pretending she could take off just like that animal to where-ever her heart desired.

Clara was able to hold back the laugh, but not the smile that threatened to split her cheeks at the seams. Closing her eyes, she let herself pretend that she was that hawk, that she was flying to where she wanted to, back to the bakery and back to a healthily flushed Mary. Then, like all the small pockets of bliss Clara could get her hands on, it was taken away from her when Humbert slowed down and Flint was ushering her down and off the horse.

Her feet met grass with a soft thump, and Clara took her time to look around her. The house in front of her was big, a lot bigger than the one she had back in London, a stone well standing tall outside the home. Well, what she thought was a home. Then she remembered what she was doing there, getting answers that could change her more than she had already been changed. And once again, it was Flint that was leading her to this transformation. For a moment, she wanted to run, but she pushed it away. She had decided to come, she needed this, needed to know why this had happened, give reason, as flimsy as it could be, to why Marys wishes would go unanswered.

Clara walked with Flint to the house, and without knocking, Flint twisted the shiny brass knob and pushed the wood open. He strolled in, but it took Clara longer to will herself to walk, afraid of what she would find pass the threshold. But enter she did, and she was met with comfortable furnishings, clocks, books, a sparse painting here and there and rugs that looked ten times better then the 'Persian' rugs some of the merchants down at the docks would try and peddle. Clara guessed these were real Persian rugs from the vivacity of their colors. Then anger flared to life in her. One of these rugs could feed her and Mary for months, let alone the orphans that littered London prolifically.

Other peoples wealth always was a sore spot for Clara, especially when she knew how bad it was for the truly poor, not her family, but the skinny skeletal children and beggars she would see in Londons gutters, palms held up to snubbed nosed courtiers. Wealth in Claras eyes meant callousness, the wealthy didn't care, not for anyone 'lesser' then them. So while, in Claras eyes, the furnishings were a lavish beauty she had the privilege of seeing, it did not bode well for the type of person living here.

"Miranda!"

Clara jerked towards Flint at his shout. Miranda, she had heard that name when he was rambling back in that tavern, speaking but not truly to her. Out of a splintered off hallway, where Clara believed the kitchen would be, came a lady. She could be nothing else by the way she held herself, poised footsteps and head held high. She was drying her hands off on a soiled rag, eyes smiling just as much as her pearly mouth. If Clara had to describe one word to the woman, it would be warm. So very warm.

The woman saw Flint first, making quick steps towards him until she stopped when she saw Clara in front of him. Her smile dropped, and Clara thought it was because of the state she was in, torn bloodied shirt, hair wild, sunburnt and dirt smudged. Clara doubted the woman had seen anyone quite in Claras position before, ladies tended to shy away from such things. But Clara was wrong, and she knew that when the woman spoke quietly to Flint even though her eyes never left Clara, her words fractured in places, sharp like broken glass.

"Is this... Is this her?"

Clara didn't turn away from the woman, confused by her sudden and determined interest in Clara. Only to get more confused by Flints gentle words, as if breaking either terrible or glorious news. Clara tensed, neither one sounded good to her.

"Yes, it's Clara."

The woman dropped the clothe, not caring as it fell to the floor with a wet plop, dashing over, Clara found herself swept up in the womans strong arms. And for some moronic reason, instead of being worried about the sudden hug, or the proximity of a stranger, Clara was more worried about the state of the dress Miranda would have when she pulled away from her own sullied clothes.

Miranda pulled away, smoothing her hands down Claras flyaway curls, her hands coming to rest cupping her cheeks, eyes shining with something that could be construed as tears. But why would the woman be crying? Clara had never met her in her entire life. Done with the confusion, Clara batted the hands away from her face, frowning at Miranda fiercely.

"Who are you?"

Clara had hated that question so much over the last few months, when it was solely directed at her, but now, when she was the one left in the dark, she understood the potency of it, the need to know. Why had Flint led her here? How could this strange, welcoming woman tell Clara anything of importance, about her life, about Flint, about anything or everything?

Miranda didn't step away, but she did pull her hands back to her chest, not lowering them. She looked at Flint from over Claras shoulder, and Clara could see a question playing on her face, one she didn't need to speak for Flint to understand, but one Clara could not decipher when not spoken. It didn't matter, Flint spoke up behind her, still with that gentle voice that scared Clara more than when he was yelling at her back on Captain Ludford ship, sword at her neck.

"I found her on a ship, heading to Boston. From what she's said, Mary's gone and obviously hasn't told the girl about us."

Anger won out against the fight clashing in her emotions and Clara exploded, shot away from them, her back hitting the hallway wall so she could square them both with a glare. Through grounded teeth and white knuckled fists, she growled.

"Fuck off with all your riddles and secrets! You said I would get my answers, so where are they? Or is all this another game, is everything you've said a game? Lure me in then finish me off, is it more fun this way? This place, it's just one secret after another, and I'm done. Done! Why did you bring me here? And who the hell is she?"

Miranda came towards her, but Clara couldn't pull herself further away, the wall preventing her from doing so. The womans hands fell to Claras small shoulders, she could feel the heat of them through her thin and ruined shirt. Looking up, Clara could see the shine in her eyes that beckoned tears had become such, trailing soft trails down Mirandas cheeks and dipping under her chin in tiny rivers. But what unnerved Clara the most was not the tears, not the games they could be playing and not the enclosed space she was in with two relative strangers.

It was the smile on Mirandas face, still bright, still pure. One that told of happiness unimaginable. Then, Clara couldn't take it in, couldn't focus, couldn't think. Flints and Mirandas faces the only things she could focus on. And just by seven little words, Miranda had shattered Claras world, her universe, everything she had ever known and spoken as fact.

"I'm Miranda Barlow and I'm your mother."

* * *

 **Next chapter-** Clara finally gets the answers she's been avoiding.

 **CHAPTER NOTES-** I know, this chapter isn't very descriptive or has a lot of Vane or Silver in it. But this story is fundamentally about Clara, and I want her background to be laid out before those two really come into play and the plots of Nassau make an appearance. Don't worry, they'll be back not next chapter but the one after that. And to those who are a bit weary of Clara not being so fiery in this chapter, well she had just had a fight with Vane, escaped from Flint and is running basically on zero fuel, so yes, she's not superhuman, she's going to be tired.

I only say this because I got a rather scathing P.M. I don't mind constructive criticism, far from it, but when someone just writes to you saying nothing is believable, the characters are wrong, the OC is annoying and fake and you should just quit the story because everything is completely wrong and you're 'ruining' Black Sails, even though I'm only six, seven now, chapters in. Well, that's not criticism, that's flame and I would prefer people not to do that. If you don't like it, just don't read. I actually put work into this and I know some of you wont like it, I don't ask everyone to, this is for my enjoyment and the few who find my mad musings entertaining. I'm sorry for the rant, but I needed to get it off my chest. **This is in no way aimed at everyone** , because most of you have been fantastically welcoming and lovely in your reviews and responses.

I wanted this chapter to be more emotionally based, because well, this chapter is about revelations and emotions, so will be the next chapter. I know that's not every ones cuppa tea, but the adventure, drama and everything else will be coming in the following chapters after the next. This is just important for Claras character lay-out and development.

I'm sorry to cut the standoff so abruptly short, but that was the plan from the beginning, and trust me, Vane hasn't given up on getting Clara on his side, far from it, it's only interested him further.

 **THANKYOU** to every wonderful person who reviewed, and although I hoped I shocked some of you with this plot twist, I'm sure some of you already figured it out. I know I've only left more questions to be answered, most, but not all, will be answered next chapter. But to those who actually like this story, who review and give me such amazing feed back, or simply enjoy it, this chapters for **YOU**.

Thank-you once again, I hope you enjoyed this chapter and will equally enjoy the next, and if you have a spare moment, please drop a review! :) - **GoWithTheFlo20**


	8. Seeing Black

There was an endless cascade of reactions Clara could have landed on. Blistering anger, tidal wave sized confusion, dense denial. Too many to name off in one sitting, but they didn't matter in the end, for as odd as it was, Clara laughed, and laughed hard. Not a humorous laugh of pure joy, or an indulgent chuckle, or a pitiful giggle, no the kind of laughter that held notes of delirium, halfway to madness. A perfect representation of the direction that Claras life had taken.

Clara had expected so many explanations that this Miranda could have spoken. But not this, never this. Had she miss-heard? For the woman could not be serious, could not expect Clara to buy into this. Mary had raised her, her smiling face was Claras first memory, well if you discounted that one crackled image her brain sometimes summoned up. A dress of the finest green silk, oaken bookshelves ladened with hefty tomes, a mans powdered and coiled wig. But to Clara that was a dream, a wisp of a fantasy she had long since forgotten and was now nothing but a shattered looking glass.

"...You're serious... You're actually serious. Are you sick?"

One of Mirandas pretty slippers peeked out from under her tussled skirts as she took a step forward, but Clara was faster, sliding along the wall and further inside the house, further away from the pair diligently watching her. She wanted to be nowhere near these people, these demented sullen faced mockers. What right did they have to be so upset? They were the spiders on the web of their own deceits. Clara was no fly, she would not end up trapped in their delusions.

"Clara, let Miranda explain-"

The tiredness that had bared so heavily down upon Clara, evaporated from her body. Leaving her neither angry or numb or confused, but a peculiar mix of feelings she could not put a face to, like the notes of a perfume, they blended together, creating new emotions. She felt like a tap turned all the way, feelings pouring into her like an over flowing bath tub, seconds away from flooding the room with their torrents.

"No! You sick sons of bitch's! You take away England, you take away Boston, you take away my freedom and if that wasn't enough, you now want to take away my mothers memory, Marys memory? Is nothing sacred to you?!"

They didn't try and come any closer, allowing her to keep herself away and pressed up against the flat wall. She no longer just felt like a cornered animal, but she must have resembled one too. She could see the door to the house, still open, her chance to escape this madness. She willed herself to run, but her feet were glued to the floor.

She had never believed it when people said they saw red when they were angry, and she didn't see that color. She did however feel her heart pound in her chest, her veins throb, but the color that invaded her vision was black. Cold, alone, an abyss of swirling vision and raw skin.

"Clara, no one is trying to take anything from you. If you let Miranda speak, you will understand. Mary... Mary meant a lot to all of us, no one here would try and sully her name or her memory. Just... Listen."

The baritone of Flints voice was soothing, but it took a few seconds for the words to register in her dilapidated mind, to fight through the blackness that was enshrouding Clara. Mary meant a lot to them? He hadn't seen Mary in years, didn't have to watch as the robust woman grew thinner and thinner, pale and sickly. No, that horrid play was reserved for Clara only. Flint or Miranda hadn't seen the once healthy woman turn into something less than human, frail and gnarled like wrongly spun glass. If they had cared so much, why wasn't Flint or Miranda there when Mary needed them most? When Clara needed them most?

"Why?"

Why should she listen to any more than she had? Why did Flint or Miranda care? Why were they doing this? Why had things turned out this way? Why was she even contemplating if what they spoke was honest or not? Clara didn't know which one she was asking, or which one she wanted to know the most, maybe all of the above.

Everything in her was in revolt, trying to bulldoze themselves to the forefront of her mind. Thoughts, feelings, would-be-actions, Claras body felt like it was a battlefield for it all. She didn't know which way was up, she was spinning and she had no way to stop any of it. How could Miranda or Flint look so calm when Clara felt anything but? Surely this powerful of a storm could not be felt by one single person, surely it was seeping out of her and infecting the room she was in? Breath, she needed to breath. In, out, in out. Clara fractured everything down to its simplest form, to the exhalation of her breaths. It was the only way to stop herself from combusting.

"Because you came here for a reason. You should at least see that through, if by the end you want to leave, the door is open, no one will stop you."

No one would stop her. If she took that for fact, then all she had to do was listen, then she could leave. God how she wanted to run, run away from them, from this house, this island, her life. She wanted to escape it all and hide like a child would from a nightmare, sequestering themselves under a bed in false safety. She wanted the bakery back, she wanted Mary back.

The feeling was so strong, so poignant, that Claras calfs cramped up in preparation. Instead, she kept her breathing even in hopes of it bringing her back to earth, she focused on a memory of years ago, of a glossy summer, of the old bakery and a smiling Mary. Grounded, she needed to keep herself out of panic if she was to get through this arduous conversation. Then she could walk away with a clear conscious, with the knowledge she had tried to get answers.

Clara gave a shaky nod, watching avidly as Miranda walked backwards and to a polished table a few feet away from a window, the thin curtains fluttering in the mild breeze filtering in. Taking her cue, Clara followed, more slowly to the table, taking a seat at the table, watching as Miranda sat down opposite her. Flint had walked into the side room with them, making his way to the windows edge, arms crossed over his chest, leaning against the wall by his shoulder, peering outside with a blank face, detached now that he had Clara willing to hear them out.

Detached, Clara needed that, she needed to compartmentalize, less her swirling thoughts and feelings eat her from the inside out. They wouldn't be easily subdued however, remnants of apprehension still flickering in Claras chest. She couldn't bring herself to be the outsider looking in, and in that moment, Clara was rabidly jealous of Flints ability to break himself off. Some petty voice rang in her head, demanding if she wasn't going to have it easy, neither should he or the woman. Clara continued with the mantra she had adopted, _in, out, in, out._

"Did Mary mention us at all?"

Claras attention was tugged away from Flint and back to the table. Miranda had pulled her chair primly into the table, her hands clasped together as she sat with her ankles crossed. It was like a mirror was dividing them, instead of showing their own reflections, it showed their differences. Miranda like a lady, Clara there, legs bent awkwardly, arms laying lamely at her side, blood dirt and torn clothes decorating her body. How could this woman, this stranger, think they could be remotely related? Especially when they couldn't be further apart, despite only a large wedge of wood dividing them.

"Only that my father was in the Navy. That he lost someone he loved dearly and left before I could even walk."

Claras voice was raspy from restrained emotions, her cracked lips sticking together when she pulled them apart to speak. She licked her lips to wet them, only to feel like dry sand had been wiped against the delicate skin there. Another problem to add the the bulging pile enclosing her, she was terribly thirsty. But Clara was more focus on the man she was speaking of, the enigma of Captain Flint.

Now that he was stood in front of her, she let herself wonder. She couldn't picture him in pressed, royal blue uniform, hair tied back by a ribbon like a lot of the Navy folk she had spotted down at the fish harbor. It was almost blasphemous to Clara to try and picture the rugged pirate as anything but as the way he was now.

"Well, James... Flint was a part of the Navy once. A lieutenant to be truthful. That's how we met, me, James and Thomas."

There was that name again, Thomas. The shadowy phantom of a faceless man that kept cropping up. He must have mattered, Miranda and Flint both had brought him up. Later, she could ask questions about that man later, for at this rate, she was never going to understand. Not if the people holding the answers kept starting at the final chapter of the story that they said involved her beginning. No, she needed to hear it all, from the beginning to end if she was ever going to fully grasp what they were trying to tell her. She was sick of the loops, the never ending cycle they kept speaking in, it led to nowhere, only back to where the bits she did know.

"Please, I can't deal with anymore of this, if I am to understand anything at all, if there is even a chance of me staying in this house after all you've said, start from the beginning."

She let that slip on purpose, if they thought there was a shimmer of a chance she was thinking of staying, she might actually get answers, even though at this point Clara wanted to do no so such thing. But they didn't need to know any of that, they just needed to believe they would get something out of this whole thing. That's how things worked didn't it? Tit for tat, it was how Clara was brought up. There was always a price to pay, no matter how small, even if you stole it and ran before they could demand payment. Nassau, Flint and Miranda, they couldn't be much different could they?

"I was married to a man called Thomas Hamilton. We loved each other dearly, as much as any friends could love each other. But dear Thomas... He had certain tastes."

No, not that different at all. Clara was done being the squirming fish trapped on the hook, this time she would be the fisherman, and if what she reeled in wasn't to her liking, she would throw Flint, Miranda and their bloody story back into the sea, leave and think nothing more of this whole fiasco. So, she would play her part, ask the questions she wanted answers too, and finally, hopefully, she would come out on top. Clara leant forward in her chair, propping herself up further and asked away.

"Certain tastes? What is that supposed to mean?"

Certain tastes? That was an evasive answer if Clara had ever heard one. Did he hit Miranda? Prefer other women? There was too many explanations to that tid bit of information, and Clara needed it to be crystal clear if she was going to get the full picture.

"Thomas, he preferred the company of men over that of women in the bed chamber."

Miranda had said it so candidly, as if stating the weather that it made Clara jar up. She had said it to a stranger, because Clara was as much of a stranger to them as they were to her. If Thomas was around, lurking somewhere on this island, Clara could ruin his life with a few words to the right opened ear. Strip him of everything, have him paraded to a hanging platform if she chose to.

They didn't know she didn't have anything against anyone who felt such a way, or that she wasn't a religious fanatic. Life was too hard and short to take away any happiness anyone could get their hands on in Claras opinion. And God, if the omnipotent cosmic power did exist, it had never helped her, so why would she follow it's strict and never ending rules in futile hopes of making it to a make believe nirvana? Yet, Miranda had thrown it to her as if it really didn't matter, that what she did or didn't do with that information didn't count in the grand scheme of things.

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Flints crossed arms tense. He had been relaxed, or portraying so to the outside world since they had left that yellowed room. So why did bringing up faceless Thomas make him break character so? Then, like being smashed over the head with a glass bottle, it came to Clara in glittering pieces. If what they said was true, then Miranda and Flint must have gotten together at some point, or regularly because Clara was alive. But back in that yellow room, the broken voice of Flints when he had muttered Thomas's name, his reaction to Miranda telling her of Thomas's preferences...It wasn't hard to guess, and if she was right in her assumptions, this story had just gotten more complex then she had originally thought it would be. Flint wasn't only involved with Miranda, he is or had been with Thomas too.

If people back in England had found out, they would have all been burned at the stake for their 'depravity'. Clara scoffed, the higher ups of society didn't know what real depravity was, they would have if they visited Londons slums some times, but their sensitivity would not allow them to.

Child prostitutes. Orphanages that didn't care if the children died, only in it for the money they could grub off the crown for housing them. Murders everyday. Workhouses. Syphilis ridden streets with 'working' women who still offered their services, even when the sores began to show. Corpses sometimes left out in the open to bloat and rot under the rain and rare splashes of sunshine because they had no family left, or money for the simplest of funerals. That was depravity, not who someone chose to love. Because from what Clara had seen of Flints eyes when Thomas's name was brought up, even by himself, she didn't doubt it was heartache that crippled him

"Oh."

Claras tone was neither here or there. She had to keep everything under lock and key, not to give her real feelings or thoughts away until she had come to a decision, and that would only happen when she had the full story. So, she would let Flint or Miranda make whatever they wanted out from her tone.

"Well, despite what you may think, or what you have been told about people like Thomas, Thomas was not a scoundrel or a demon. He was bright, clever, educated, warm. A true gentlemen. He was my best friend, and although we did not lay together like a married man and woman should, we had a happy life. Then, James came along and it only got better."

Then where the hell was this Thomas? And why was Miranda only talking about this phantom when all Clara wanted to know was about Mary, about how this woman opposite her could even try and claim Marys place? But Clara didn't voice her questions, it seemed that now Miranda had started explaining and opening up, the woman was on a roll, and the sooner Clara heard everything, the sooner she could make a plan of what to do.

"It was like a missing puzzle piece to our household. During those glorious summer days that stretched on longer than they should have, I, James and Thomas were happy, exceedingly so. Then like all summers, it ended and winter came pounding on our door."

Something dark began to glimmer in the back of Mirandas clear eyes, like a jewel being lit by a candle from behind. Like a ghost, haunting the edges of some ones subconscious.

"Thomas and James had gotten involved in things that other people, influential people thought were best left alone. But Thomas, bless him, he saw a chance to right a wrong, and went forward with it anyway. James went along with it too, and where they went, I would have walked across broken glass to follow. Then I found out about being pregnant with you."

The dark light was gone, and Clara was worried the woman would start crying again by the mist taking its place in her eyes. Clara had enough trouble putting up with her own emotions to have the skills to deal with other peoples adequately. Comforting did not come naturally to her, not like this woman who seemed so empathetic and warm.

"Those are things better left for other days, but when I fell pregnant with you, things had already started to turn darker. But we were too blissfully unaware of just how bad things would turn out in the end."

This was all well and truly good. But if this woman was her mother like she had said she was, how had Clara ended up with Mary? They hadn't even whispered Marys name yet, if it was true, was Mary some stranger they had dropped Clara on the doorstep of when things got too tough? No, they had said they had cared for Mary, to care for someone you must know them, so how did they know Mary?

"What about Mary? Where and when does she come into all this?"

"I knew Mary since I was your age, younger even. My family used to buy our loaves of bread from her fathers bakery. We became friends, and it wasn't an odd sight to see her visiting our household or delivering the baking goods, even after my marriage to Thomas. She fell pregnant around the same time as I, by an apothecary owner she was engaged to I believe. And well, it wasn't supposed to be, the man died of some disease, consumption I think, and Mary miscarried before she reached the six months mark while she was visiting our home. Thomas offered her a place to stay, until she recovered and was ready to face the world once more."

Clara had a chilling zap run down her spine, cooling her in the searing heat of the island. The apothecary owner, they knew of him. So they must have been slightly close to Mary, for the woman never brought him up unless to someone she knew very well and classed as a friend. Clara had only learned of the mystery potions and lotions man when she was ten, and he was never spoken of again. So if they were honest about being close to Mary, what else were they being truthful about?

All Clara could do was swallow deeply as her skin pricked in goose bumps. No, she couldn't believe it, Mary Summerfield was her mother, not this stranger who sat so tall and looked so welcoming.

"Mary wouldn't hear of boarding in our home for free, and I often found her in the kitchen doing the households cooking. I think she did it to get out from her own mind, to keep her thoughts of the more darker path they had taken after the loss of her baby and fiancé. Days turned to weeks and weeks turned to months, Mary became a permanent fixture in our house. Not that any of us minded, Mary became a friend that was worth her weight in gold and so much more. Then I had you, and Mary was there for me all the way, holding my hand through the pains of childbirth. James and Thomas were away at the time, talking to governors of their reformation plans of N-"

Miranda cut herself off, and Clara would never know what she was going to say because the distant look in her eyes of remembrance transformed into clarity. Miranda smiled at Clara, but it didn't reach her eyes, and before Clara could ask her what she meant to say, the woman was back to telling her tale.

"They were busy, but they got home just in time to see you scream and squaw your arrival. All pink and red and angry fisted. We had a birth certificate drawn up for you that week, Thomas claimed you as his own, the scandal of anything else, especially the truth of your father being James, would have driven us all apart otherwise... Or worse."

That didn't make a shade of sense. She had her birth certificate, it was the damned thing that had outed her to Flint and got her in this mess in the first place. Mary had taught her to read the signatures, and there was no doubt that the paper was signed by a Mary Summerfield and James Flint. So if Thomas had signed her birth certificate, then why wasn't her name Hamilton? Or Mirandas name brandished on paper?

"Then why is my name Flint, why isn't Thomas's name on there?"

Miranda sighed, braced herself on the table and lifted herself elegantly out of the chair. She walked over to a bookshelf pushed up into the corner of the room, slid a book out that was bound in red leather, flicked through the pages, until she came to a stop and plucked out a folded piece of paper. She came back to the table, sat back in her chair with a puff of her long skirts and unfolded the piece of paper. Laying it on the table, Miranda pushed it towards Clara, pretty cursive signatures in deep black ink staring back at Clara from the white sheet.

"That's your real birth certificate. When things became dangerous, not only for me or James or Thomas, but for you. Thomas was crafty, he had a back up plan for his back up plans. He was also friends since university with a Lawyer. Thomas managed to convince him, with a fair amount of coin, to create a duplicate, one marking off mine and Thomas's name. By then Mary was more than a friend, she was like a sister, an aunt to you, and she was all to happy to put her name on the forgery. No one questioned her when she did eventually went back to the bakery with you, thinking you were this out of towns apothecarys daughter, her father had died by this point, leaving no one with the knowledge of the apothecary owners name."

Clara reached over the table with a shaking hand, dread setting up shop in her gut as she looked closely to the writing on the old paper. She couldn't make out all of the words, but she could read her own name, and the surname next to hers she could partially read. The letter H she knew from wheat, the letter L from flour, the letter A from yeast and the letter N from Flint. Did it say Hamilton? She couldn't read it fully, but it was definitely not the word Flint she was so used to seeing side by side of her own name.

"But Flints name is on my other birth certificate, the one you said was a forgery to keep me safe. If you did all this to keep me hidden, then why give me his name?"

Clara pushed the paper away from her, trying to push away the facts it was blaring in her face. This ridiculous story, this opera play, didn't seem so fanciful any more, and Clara hated it. Hated them, hated the paper, but mainly hated herself for coming. If she wasn't so curious, if she didn't demand to know the answers, she could be back in blissful ignorance. Pretending the only important thing was to get off this island. She would have preferred being back in that fight with Vane than this, at least there, in that situation, she knew the rules. It was either do or die, no emotions or thoughts clouding your judgement, just a will to survive. Clara was good at dealing with that, had been her entire life. This tangled mess of a situation, this boost of raging and warring emotions, Clara wasn't so good at navigating through.

"James picked that name yes, but his real name is James McGraw, not Flint. James is a common enough name and when Thomas died- "

Flint pushed off the wall, storming down into the hallway leading to the ajar door to the outside, disappearing through the door and the wood shutting with a boom as he slammed his exit. The noise and sudden movement made Clara jump in her chair, but Miranda stayed perfectly still, as if she knew his reaction would be when she told Clara what had happened to the man that had apparently had so much to do with her life, even if she didn't know him. If Clara had an inkling of doubt about Flints connection to Thomas, it was snuffed out now. After a few seconds of silence, Miranda was speaking again, voice even, eyes focused but more closed off than before.

"When Thomas died, we knew we had to leave but keep you hidden too. You being so young at the time, and the dangers of travel, of the sea, well, we had to leave you behind, Mary promising to look after you until we could bring you to us, when the dangers were less."

"That doesn't explain my name."

Clara cut herself short, not daring to say the words that were dancing through her head. _So you just left? That's it, gone. Did you even look back?_ Clara was already pushed to her limits and she didn't know what her reaction would be if she had Miranda answer those questions. Claras hands were fisted on the table, threatening to tear through the paper crumpled in her fist. Miranda, who must have seen something in her, reached over with softs palms to lay her hand over one of Claras tightly knotted ones. Miranda seemed to be able to read people well too, but Clara refused to acknowledge it, she refused to acknowledge her similarities to Flint, this woman had no chance of Clara declaring the same thing with her.

"James took the name Flint after it was given to you, Do you know why? Even after giving it to you to keep you hidden? It was five years after we had left England, and the time was long enough for people to stop looking for you, most likely believing we had taken you with us. We thought of you often, but James... James was never good at voicing his emotions, he has the tendency to bottle them up until they blow over violently, something I think you two share in common."

Mirandas thumb stroked over Claras bandaged hand, and she could feel the cuts on her fingers threatening to re-open. But Clara couldn't bring herself to care, not when so many other things more insidious than pain was battling inside of her. Clara found herself trying to focus in on the pain rather than the turmoil bubbling inside of her, pain was simple, feelings were not.

"I don't know the full story. I don't think I ever will, but I do know he was climbing up in... Status in this island. And one day someone asked his name, and he told them Flint. Not because he is unoriginal, or he was bothered by his true name, he had spent five years using his real name, or he thought the name Flint would inspire people more, but because he missed you, because if he couldn't have you by his side, he could at least have your name to keep close. That I do know. So if you doubt anything at all, never, ever doubt Flints love towards you. He may not tell you it, but I hold no such qualms."

It was too much. Flint... Caring for her. Mary was the only one who had ever truly cared and loved Clara. It didn't fully fit into the picture she had painted of Flint in her mind. But that was the problem wasn't it? Clara had presumed to much, guessed to much. She had pinned people down as certain categories without really knowing them. What else didn't she know about Flint? About Miranda? Or anyone else she had ran into? The ruthless pirate that her mind associated to Flint crumbled and flaked in her mind like a ageing painting until it was fully gone and all that was left was an unknown entity.

Clara was strong enough, honest enough, to say the unknown frightened her more than anything else. You couldn't plan for something unknown, couldn't figure a way out of it, because it was unknown. It left you with no safety nets of neatly ordered plans and contingencies. It left you out in the open, stripped and naked, alone. Claras voice cracked under the strain when she spoke.

"The dangers you spoke of... They never got any less did they?"

Clara didn't need an answer, she just wanted the silence to end. Silence, was the worst sound to Clara, even though it was no sound at all. Silence always reminded her of death, of coldness and voids of emptiness. Clara felt more at home in raging shouts and louder crowds than the weighty oppressive, deafening silence.

"No. No they didn't."

Mirandas hand that was still laying over her fist, picked up her hand, unfurled her fingers and held it. Clara was too tired to do much, too wrapped up in her own mind to really do anything , instead she watched as the womans hand slipped around hers, fitting there and adhering as Miranda squeezed.

"Please, as hard as this is to take in, as blurry and convoluted as the explanation is, just remember two things. Me and James never forgot you, never stopped hoping for the day to come to bring you back."

Honest, Clara would be honest. If this woman had helped Mary through her darkest times, then she owed it to Marys friends. Clara wasn't and thought she never would be able to associate the word mother to Miranda, for every time that simple word passed her mind, Marys face shone in her eyelids.

"You're not my mother and Flint is not my father."

It came out a lot colder than Clara meant to, and Miranda froze at her declaration. She wasn't trying to hurt the woman, she just wanted the facts straight, for both of them. Clara hated not knowing where she stood with someone, she wouldn't be the one to do that to someone else.

"I promise I haven't lied, Flint hasn't lied-"

"You're not my mother. My mother was Mary Summerfield. She was the one to teach me numbers, the one to ease my fevers when I fell ill, to clean my scrapes and cuts. Flint isn't my father. Mary was the one to teach me right from wrong, how to defend myself, the one to tuck me into bed. You and Flint are not my mother and father, Because Mary was. She raised me, loved me. I wont and can't forget that."

Miranda pulled her hand away from Claras hand like she had physically burned her. As harsh and uncaring as Claras words seemed to be, they were the truth. They, Miranda and Flint, could and would never take Marys place. But maybe, maybe she could make a place for them somehow.

"But... Given time, we may become friends, maybe even something resembling a family. But you and Flint, you can't ever take Marys place in my life. It's impossible. I think at the moment, that is all I can promise."

A small smile graced Mirandas lips, leaving Clara feeling like she wasn't such a heartless bitch. Yes, this was the right way to go, Mary would have wanted her to do this. And if she can't fulfill Marys last wish of going to Boston, she could do this for her.

"That is all I or Flint could dare ask and hope for. Just a chance."

"A chance is something I can give."

Clara looked out towards the closed front door, wondering if Flint was just outside or had stormed further away. What would he say if he was here? Would he be as happy as Miranda had said, or something else? Clara turned away from the door, looking down at her hands as she asked Miranda were she thought Flint had gone.

"Where do you think he's gone?"

"This is tough for him. Past wounds haven't healed fully. For either of us. He'll be back when he's ready."

Then Miranda was in sudden movement, springing up from her chair and helping a weak Clara do the same, ushering her further into the house with soft and cautious hands, her voice lacking the sombre tone it had seconds prior, now more on a happier lilt.

"Now look at the state of you, and you must be starving. How about some food, a hot bath, and I'm sure I can find some clothes around here that would fit you, give you some time to relax, you're safe here."

It was too much, too soon. She sounded too much like Mary and it hurt, it hurt so bad that Clara had to refrain from clutching at her chest. If this is what they felt when Thomas had died, well, she could partially understand why they had left, because Clara wanted to leave too. But would she be like Flint, would this wound never heal on her? Clara shut that train of thought down abruptly. What was that saying Mary used to tell her when she got too hot headed or wanted things done now when she couldn't do it? Baby steps. To take baby steps... Clara could do that.

"A bath sounds lovely."

Once she was clean, had new clothes and a full stomach, maybe even a rest, then she would think, then she would plan if she stayed or not or what she would do in general. But one thing was for sure, she wouldn't be stuck in this house forever. It was too alien, to foreign of a thing to leave Clara with any comfort. No, soon she would be back on that beach, planning her next move and hopefully finding an Ally. Then, sudden like a lightening bolt, Silvers face sprang to mind. Recuperation first, then she would hunt down John Silver.

* * *

 **NEXT CHAPTER** : Silver and Clara meet back up, they scheme up a plan that may or may not balance on Vanes willing participation... But all three have their own agendas.

 **A.N-** No Silver or Vane in this chapter, but they're back in the next chapter! This just needed to be out the way, and now Clara can actually start getting involved in the schemes and plots that abound in Nassau. I know this doesn't answer all questions, but they will be answered at a later date. I can't give everything away so soon after all.

This chapter was SO HARD to write. I can't even begin to explain how difficult it was. I really wanted to capture real reactions, but at the same time keep Miranda and Flint in relatively cannon character, and because this didn't happen in the show, it was hard to picture how they would actually react.

For some reason I saw Miranda taking the lead in this sort of situation, and Flint trying to keep his distance, Clara trying to do the same too, but failing. I picture Flint as a very guarded person, and just couldn't see him acting all sweet to Clara, but I also wanted Miranda to point out that Flint did care for her, even if he wasn't able to say it himself.

Clara is also extremely loyal to the few who make it into her heart, so I couldn't just write her being okay with everything, forgetting completely about Mary, the woman who raised her, and being happy about it all. But at the same time, I also wanted Clara to let them in slightly, to not be completely cold hearted or not care about this revelation. I hope that explains why this chapter went the way it did, and I hope it seems realistic and readers enjoyed it despite the copious amounts of emotions and its lack of action or romance.

Thank you so very much to the people who left reviews, they really made my day after the doubt that settled in after that P.M. I hope you all enjoyed this chapter and are looking forward to the ones to come. Things really start picking up pace now, and romance does start to sprinkle into the story next chapter, *Cough* Silver *Cough* ;). So prepare for a rollercoaster ride, because things are never easy when you're a pirate!

The next chapter will be the end of the pairing voting, so I can tell you the scores so far are:

 **Silver/OC- 11**

 **Vane/OC-9**

This is still a **Vane/Oc/Silver** fic, but this is to decide the end game. So if you guys still want to vote, you have about two/three days left, when the next chapter goes up, then voting closes and it will be decided! So far, they're very close.

PLEASE leave a review, the feedback is really appreciated. Virtual hugs to every reader, and until next time, keep being pirate lovers!- **GoWithTheFlo20**


	9. You

That night Clara had slept like a newborn babe. Stomach full with cheese, bread and ham. Another meat she had never had the pleasure of eating before, but now relished in its smoky flavor. After the meal, she was washed and scrubbed from a coal warmed bath and soap that smelled of freshly picked flowers. Clara wasn't ashamed to admit when she was left in the bathing room alone with the wooden tub pushed by the open fire place, she had spent more than a few minutes simply smelling the soap, sitting in that bath tub of luxury.

She had never thought soap could smell like that. The type she had back home, with Mary, was plain, made from goose fat and lard. This simple thing however smelled like heaven, and was pretty too, rounded in shape with little flower buds peaking out from the opaque milky whiteness. She almost didn't want to use it... Until she caught a whiff of herself, smoke, blood and sweat, hers and some one else's. A mans, Vanes if she would have guessed from their up close and personal fight earlier that day.

She had used that bar of soap on everything, her skin, her hair, even choosing to dip her dingy clothes into the water with her and scrubbing away with a shoe brush that was left on the fire places mantle. Miranda had promised to get her a dress, but it didn't feel right. She was never fully comfortable in dresses, and these clothes, dusty dirty pieces of fabric, held a certain part of her as odd as it sounded. She had survived a pirate raid in these clothes, survived escaping, survived Vane. She couldn't just throw them away. So she scrubbed, and when all the filth was gone and with only a few nicks here and there in the clothe, she spread them out in front of the fire to dry off, wearing the thin shift that Miranda had given her before she went into the bathroom.

After the bath, Miranda had led her to a room with a wide bed taking up most of the space. More rich fabrics, in Claras opinion, were used. And as soon as her body had hit the softness of a mattress like no other Clara had slept on, she was fast asleep. She slept long, but not entirely undisturbed. She couldn't totally remember the dream that woke her up, only the cooks face, Marys face and a mans wig again. But the contents of her minds landscape did not matter, because she woke up in a rush, bracing herself for something she couldn't remember heading her way.

Staring out the open window, needed for the nights were even hot on this island, she saw the sun slowly making its entrance to the open sky. In a rush, she flipped the sheets off of her, padded into the bathroom, her clothes still lying on the floor, dry now, tugged the shift off and changed.

Edging out of the bathroom, she kept her ears open for any signs of Miranda stirring from her own bedroom. When the coast was clear, she made her way to the front door, opening it, she glanced back, feeling slightly regretful for having to leave Miranda without so much as a thank you, but she had people to find and they would not wait for her. With resolve fixed, she crept out of the house and Closed the door behind her softly, promising herself that she would go back soon, even later that very day.

It took her two hours to walk the twenty minutes horse ride journey back to the beach and the surrounding town. But she liked it, the wakening birds songs the only thing interrupting her thoughts. She needed this time, to calm herself after the events of yesterday, to process it, which she still had not actually done by the time she was walking among the quickly busying streets and tall shadowed buildings from the rising sun.

She had just wondered down a road and saw the familiar building of Noonans when she decided against going anywhere near that place. So turning down a side road, trying to come up with ways of finding Silver, imagine her surprise when the man flaunting through her thoughts smacked right into her... Soaking wet.

"Jesus Christ... Silver? What are you doing here, and why are you so wet?"

His eyes darted to her, his face set in grim determination, and before Clara could even register her worry, he span her around and had his large hand clamped over her mouth, dragging them backwards to the wall until they were hidden in its shadows. Clara raised her elbow to ram it into his stomach, thinking he had finally gone mad, or really was angry for having to save her life back with Vane, when the looming figure of Billy ran past their turn off point and disappeared down the adjacent road, swallowed up by the life of Nassau.

"No time to explain I'm afraid."

He let go of her and pushed away, and had already started back off down the small enclosed road the way he had came, but Clara was fast and snatched up the back of his shirt, having to use her full body weight and a tight grip to stop him and yank him back. He reached behind him and smacked her non injured hand away, but still stopped and twirled to face her, which was what she wanted.

"What is going on? What did you do?"

Silver looked passed her shoulder for a moment, likely scanning the crowd to make sure Billy wasn't still lurking around, then he focused back in on her. He smiled a smile that must have gotten him out of hell as a child, still did sometimes, but one Clara knew all to well, had already seen him play it. The whole 'I'm innocent' thing didn't really wash when you actually knew Silver, even the tinniest amount.

"Me? Me? Why would you automatically jump to the problem being me?"

The road they were on was more of a break in between buildings, woven caskets and barrels pushed up here and there, short distance between one exit and another. A movement behind Silvers broad shoulders caught Claras eye, making her smile at him this time and gesture behind him with a point of her finger, making him look over to see what had her so amused.

"So Billy is just hunting you down for no reason? Just for the fun of it?"

"Billy?!"

Silver pressed himself back up to the wall, this time thankfully leaving Clara behind to stand as she wanted to. Her tone was sweet, but mocking as she spoke, watching as Billy appeared, glanced around before striding away in the wrong direction once again. For someone so tall, who could look over the heads of many a big man, Billy was sure bad at actually spotting people. Why he was the one sent out to do so bewildered her.

"So are you going to tell me, or do I need to shout loud enough for Billy to come back, maybe even Flint?"

Silver stopped watching the place Billy had been and levelled her with an un-amused glare, which only made her own enjoyment climb. He scanned her up and down, kicked off from the wall but did not try and leave this time. Clara would have just followed him anyway and Silver plausibly knew this.

Silver... John Silver could not be explained in words adequately. He kept doing things she did not expect him to do. She also found herself doing things she had not planned around him, like killing the cook. But if he was an ally, if he could ever be a friend she could count on in this place, she would need to know just were he fell, who he was. The problem was, she didn't think she would ever fully understand him.

Was he a man simply out for himself, or was he something else entirely? Friend or Foe? John or Silver? Or was he everything wrapped up into one? But that was why she had came back to this beach today, to make allies, to build a foundation, and as grudgingly as she was to voice it, Silver was the first name that had popped into mind when she had originally thought about it. He had helped her against Vane, whether for his own skin or hers, it had to count for something.

"No, definitely not that option... You remember that piece of paper the cook had on him back on Captain Ludfords ship?"

The question made Claras eyebrows pucker in the middle as she tried to think back to that time, a time she really didn't like thinking back on. She could faintly remember the rolled piece of old leather, but when that thought brought back the feeling of the knife crunching through the cooks flesh, Clara snapped her mind away from it.

"Yes..."

Silver nodded, looked behind him to a corner of the wall and backed up, sitting down on a barrel and patting the accompanying barrel for Clara to sit on. Clara strolled over, keep her eyes on Silver as she too sat down, watching as he reached into his blue jacket, the one she thought he had gotten rid of, pocket and pulled out that small bundle of leather and paper. The little thing that had cost the cook his life, the minuscule thing that had made Clara kill a man. She almost wanted to snatch it away from Silver and burn the fucking thing, but managed to refrain herself. It didn't make anything happen, the people were the ones who did, Clara was the one who killed and she deserved that responsibility, that twinge of regret fluttering in her stomach when she was reminded of it.

"Turns out it's a rather important piece of paper, a schedule in fact of one of the greatest treasury ships in the new and old world. However, Flint had commandeered our ship for just this slip of paper, knowing it was on board and missing, and after quite the goose chase, found out I have it, and now likely wants me on a spit."

Silver untied the strings, rolled the leather out and pulled the paper free. Clara had the wondering thought of it was always a little piece of paper that fucked people over. This schedule, her birth certificate. If she was smart, she should have ran then, but Clara was forever curious, and the mention of a treasury ship had her interests more than a little piqued. Silver must have believed this schedule to be true, to risk his life, the anger of Flint, to keep it. He held the paper out between them, but Clara could only look, knowing there was no chance she could read such a thing, but the neatly inked marks were pretty, and she wasn't going to admit to Silver of all people she couldn't read. Her musings were sliced short when Silver started speaking again.

"I however have already made a deal for this schedule, and who am I if I don't have my word to honour?"

Clara glanced up at his face, his bright smiling face... And didn't fall for a single word. He truly did take after his name, Silver the Silver tongued, it fit him poetically beautiful. But Clara couldn't be swayed by fanciful words and sparkling eyes. He would eventually figure that out, if they stayed beside one another long enough for him to.

"Don't pull that with me Silver, you're after the biggest buyer and that's it. So, who is it?"

"The buyer?"

Clara scoffed, she may look young, mayhap be young compared to the other people on this island. But she did not have a naive mind. Easy to anger, quick tongue and a distaste for being underestimated sure, she knew her flaws well, but never truly naive. She would have never lived as long as she had if that had been the case. While many girls her age were married, prostituting, begging or dead, Clara had scrapped by, by the skin of her teeth many times, but she had still managed it without having to rely on anyone. She knew how things worked, better then most people gave her credit for.

"No, the in between, the go to man. You wouldn't risk showing your face with such a prize attached to it, it would likely end in your death, you're smart enough to know that. So who is it?"

Yes she looked young, younger than she actually was. Yes, she looked delicate, but that was her greatest card she realized. No one expected any more from her. God forbid they expected her to have an ounce of intelligence. Silver regarded her once more, and Clara had the feeling he was truly seeing her for the first time, not just her hot headedness, or her imp-like face. But her, the one who lay underneath all that. It made her feel bare under his scrutiny, as if he was dissecting her soul. Clara didn't like it, not one bit and could practically feel her guard slam up.

"Ah, well. She's a lovely woman from Noonans."

He grinned, leaning his shoulder against the wall next to him, his body turned towards Clara. He said it so flippantly, as if it was Clara that was not seeing the logic. Claras mouth floundered for a few seconds, before the words she was looking for came out in a rush of one breath, syllables and twists of tongue blending into one long noise that escaped her, that miraculously Silver managed to decipher.

"Noonans... The whore house? You're trusting a prostitute to handle this? She's going to fucking sell you out you idiot!"

His grin faltered and he stood up from his cozy seat in the shadow of the building they were currently hiding behind. The paper was still out in the open, but it was in his tight hand as he used his other one to run down his shirt, straightening out the imaginary creases, frowning at her like she had just slapped him, then the damned grin was back.

"Please Clara, have some faith, I can tell a trust worthy person from the not so. Look at us, we're friends aren't we?"

Trap. That was what he was trying to do, lead her into a verbal trap. If she agreed, he would know she wouldn't tattle on him, and off he would go with the schedule all to himself, and if she said no, well this conversation was over and he would still be off somewhere, doing whatever it was he was planning. Clara stood up, walking slowly over to him until she was close, nearly toe to toe with the slightly taller man, glaring at him and his games.

"Yeah, that would be more heart-warming if I didn't know the only reason you put up with me is because of Flint and his connection to me, who you are trying to betray by the way. You're standing on shaky ground Silver, take cautious steps."

"Now Clara, you wouldn't hand me in would you, after all we've been through together?"

He held out his hands, as if baring himself to her with false ease, his smirk wider, his eyes still sparkling maddeningly. Clara braced herself, crossing her arms over her chest as she squared her shoulders back, hoping without words that he would understand she wasn't to be taken for an imbecile. She had never treated him as such, not fully, and she deserved the same kind of respect.

"What? Me saving your life? A fist fight with Vane and now this? To be honest I think it would be better for my health if I did hand you over to Flint... Let me look at the schedule again."

His hand holding the schedule automatically snapped back a fraction as his eyes darted between it, her eyes and her now out-turned hand waiting for it to be passed over. He was the one who said they were friends, friends let other friends look at their schedules. Maybe next time, after learning Clara could play the word game just as well as he could, he would choose his words more carefully with her.

After a heavy sigh, and a sag to his shoulders, he reluctantly handed it over with a jerk of his hand and an even faster retreat. Clara brought it in front of her face, making her eyes go from left to right in a façade of actually reading the damn thing. If Silver found out she couldn't pick out a single word, the schedule would be gone, he would be gone, and the chance to get in on this would also vanish before her eyes.

"Do you remember it at all? Could you remember it if you didn't have it in front of you?"

Silver came closer, but Clara backed away at the same time, making him shoot her a confused glance. Thankfully he didn't come any closer, only tensing up a smidgeon, likely in preparation of diving for her if she chose to scarper away with the schedule and leave him alone in this alleyway of a road.

"Partially. Just that last chunk there at the bottom I haven't memorized quite yet."

Silver could be lying, meaning he had memorized it all, or that he had only memorized that part he said he had not. But it didn't matter, the buyer would not buy a partial schedule. Clara looked up to him and smiled as brightly as he had at her, almost laughing as his expression grew worried.

"Good."

With a quick pinch, and a flick of her wrist, the lowest paragraph was torn off and securely in her possession. Silver dashed for her, but she chucked the rest of the schedule at him, stopping him in his tracks to grab at the fluttering piece of paper in the wind. By the time he had snatched it from the air, Clara had danced further away from him, folded the piece up and shoved the torn part into the bandaged wrapping up her hand and wrist, new, clean ones thanks to Mirandas kindness.

"What are you bloody doing?!"

His nostrils were flared, the sparkle in his eyes gone and his jaw was clenched hard. Clara saw for the first time an angry John Silver, and it was a lot more frightening than she could have imagined. She almost backed down, almost handed the piece over and almost left. Almost being the operative word. She wouldn't back down to him, she hadn't with Vane and she hadn't with Flint.

"Ensuring I have a place in your scheme. If you try and take it from me, I swear Flint and his crew is going to be the least of your worries. I deserve a piece, I was the one to kill the cook after all."

Silver half huffed and half growled, spinning his back to her as he ran a hand through his hair, staring at the now cramped crowds passing them non the wiser of what was happening in the road they were passing. He finally turned back to her, ran a hand down his face, staring at her blankly. He pulled his hand away from resting on his chin and smiled, less bright this time, but it was something to ease her worries.

"Fine, partners then. But as my partner, you will have to help me hide from your father."

Clara gave a nod, knowing that was the best she was going to get out of him at the moment. But she had to stomp down on her anger towards his choice of words, at bringing up Flint, for voicing him as her father. She still couldn't reconcile that inside her, to have someone else voice it made her temper flare.

Clara walked past him and to the end of the road she had come from, turning back to a stationed Silver, she jerked her head behind her and towards the right, indicating for him to follow, he looked less then pleased by her silent demand.

"Well, lets go pay your in between woman a visit. She's invested as much in this as we are, for that I'm guessing she wont mind if she lets her room out for use to scurry away into for a while."

They edged through the crowds, keeping both their heads down, Silver even going as far to bring her to his side, whispering in her ear that her hair would give them away if she weren't more careful. Clara scoffed at him, how could she be careful about her hair color, it wasn't like she had chosen it herself just to annoy him. Although at this time, if it was such a possible thing, she might of done it to spite him.

Just as they reached the doors, Silver picked up her arm and tugged her around the building, down the side of the building until they came to a balcony a floor above their heads. Silver dropped her arm and used an indent in the shabby wall of the brothel to hoist himself up just enough to grab the bottom of the balcony. With more grace than she thought he had, he climbed up, flipped over the railing and was safely on the balcony in record timing.

When he disappeared from her view, she was just about to shout him out for ditching her, when his top half came back, hanging awkwardly over the railing, hands reaching down for her, that damn grin back full force.

"Here let me help, for someone so little, this climb will be quite difficult."

Clara snarled, stormed over to the wall, jammed one foot into the indent and lifted herself up, begrudgingly using Silvers open arms to help her up because she really couldn't reach the bottom of the balcony, even with the added help of the indented wall. When she eventually made it over the railing, she slapped his arm hard, making him wince and rub the spot she had assaulted.

"Fuck you Silver."

Silvers smile grew, and he swaggered over to the closed curtain doors, swinging the door open without so much of a knock, they both stalled at what they saw. A woman with mocha colored skin, deep ebony curls and a soundless beauty was on her knees, hand busy jerking back and forward over a mans member, his ass bared and on show for Silver and Claras wide eyes.

Clara spluttered, but Silver still dragged her into the shaded room by her elbow, closing the door behind him and alerting the other residents of their entrance. The man was fast to react, yanking his trousers up and swearing at them both with a thick Irish accent, the woman promising a later, her accent even thicker than the Irish mans, but as beautiful as herself, French and lilting. It didn't stop the Irish mans anger, as he stormed out of the room with a bang of a door. Then the woman was on them, anger hissed through her words and aimed for Silver.

"What are you doing here? During the daylight? And who is this?"

"This is my friend Clara Flint. I-"

"You brought Flints daughter, does she know? who else have you told-"

Clara stepped forward, putting herself between the flustered Silver and the angry brunette with a wide stride. She hated it when people spoke like she wasn't there, like hell would she let these two do the same.

"I'm right fucking here! Yes I do know and now I'm in also. Look, Flints found out about Silver having the schedule, now he needs somewhere to hide."

"And you came here, to me?! Do you understand what they will do to me. When a man is getting fucked he wants to know whose cock is inside him!"

It was Silvers turn to step between the two women, and Clara noticed how they had been doing that a lot lately, fluctuating between actions, taking it in turns. But Silver was a lot more welcoming then Clara was, with his white smile and easy going nature, he was better at calming a situation down, where Clara was good at riling it up. He turned around, glancing between the two women.

"No one is going to do anything to anyone. All I need to do is hide until sun down, you set up the meeting, then we'll split the shares three ways and leave before sunrise."

the woman pulled away from them, eyebrows pulled down in a frown, looking split between going back to yelling in a hushed voice, or simply walking out of the room. But it was hard to concentrate on her, when Claras own emotions went of kilter. Leave, they would be leaving. She thought she could wing this around, sell it off and then let Flint know were the schedule was, get money to see her through and getting the schedule to Flint seemed like a good plan for all. She didn't want to fully double cross the man, but at the same time there was only a certain amount of professions on this island for women, and Clara didn't want to be on her back twenty-four-seven, or waiting tables.

"Leave... You're leaving?"

Silver glanced at her, looking shocked that she had not figured out that part when really she should have. Thinking it through, for Silver who had no connections to this place, it was the best course of action. He would be fucking over one of the biggest pirates on this island, it was best he got the hell out of dodge before Flint could retaliate. But for some reason, Claras mind had not thought down that path, if they did this, Silver would have to leave.

Clara had nothing outside this island, no family, no home. She had no where to go and no one to run to. The only thing she had left was Miranda and Flint, and even that was a dubious connection, but a connection all the same. Silvers hand on her shoulder and his voice broke her out of the quiet panic she had been building up to.

"We... WE are leaving. You're not staying here are you Clara? If you stay, Flint will eventually find out and long lost daughter or not, the end result will not be pretty."

No, she couldn't do this. as tentative as a... Truce, was truce the right word? She had with Flint and Miranda, she couldn't do this to them. God, knows how long Flint had been after this ship, this treasure. But at the same time, she hardly knew much about these people. She did know Flint was a killer, that he could be cold and hard most of the time, distant at best, but he had never harmed her, never even sent a slap her way. Could she do this to him, for her own means? No, no she couldn't, she wasn't that type of person. Claras hand went to her bandaged hand, Silver couldn't sell the schedule if she kept her hands on this piece of it.

The three of them were brought out of their stupor by a concession of knocks on the door of the room. The door opened and a black haired woman leaned through the crack, her eyebrow rose up on her head at Silver and Clara, but she was back to business when she tuned to face the woman next to them.

"Jack Rackham has just walked in and is heading up this way Max."

" _Merde_!"

The woman stepped through the door when Max ushered her over with a wave of her hand, proceeding to jostle and lead Silver and Clara to an adjacent door that looked to be a part of the wall of the room, once opened Clara and Silver was pushed through roughly by Max.

"You two stay here. Keep quiet. Idelle, keep an eye on them for me."

Max waited for no answer, and with Idelle walking in with a shrug of her shoulders, the door closed in front of them, and Max was gone. Idelle didn't even glance their way, instead walking over to the bed and plopping down on the messy blankets, fiddling with her boots. Silver was close to Clara, his shoulder almost touching hers as they stood near the hidden door, and Claras anxiety turned to all out anger towards the blue eyed man.

"Rackham?! You do know this will include Vane, the same man who did this to my hand, the same one who likely wants me dead, you too for holding a gun to his head?! Are you really this stupid or just crazy?"

"Stupid? No, I didn't know it was him we were selling to. But think about it, they would never guess it was us, and we'll be long gone to some sunny beach of some far off land before they even realize."

Clara was about to tell him she was going nowhere, especially with him, when the brunette spoke up from her post on the bed, voice droll and eyes and hands now playing with her short skirts.

"For a married couple, you sure argue a lot."

The reaction was instantaneous, both whirling to the bored looking Idelle, Silver for once lost for words and Clara spluttering her denial, jabbing a finger towards Silver as she spoke.

"Married? To him? Are you joking? As if I would ever marry Silver."

Silver reared his head back as he glared at her, as if she had just said the sky was pink with purple and yellow spots. His hands landed on his hips as he rounded on her, voice sprinkled with the tone of disbelief.

"Excuse me, I think I would make an excellent husband. You would be lucky to have me, I however being stuck with you..."

"Fuck you Silver, and your god-damned ego!"

Silvers jaw opened to most likely give a sharp retort to Clara, only for a bang from the room Max was in to cut him off, making them both stare at the wall as if it would give them the secrets of what was going on next door. It was Silver who spotted the two holes, leading Clara over to them with a tug on her arm. Bending down, still pressed closely together thanks to the position of the holes, Silver peaked through his, Clara taking more time to will herself to look through.

But when she did, she almost swallowed her tongue. She could see Rackham at the table of the room, Max standing off to the corner. It was non of this that set her on edge, but the person who had come banging his way into the room. A very angry, very murderous looking Vane. Could this day get any worse? Yes, it could Clara realized when Vane started ranting in that deep raspy voice of his.

"It's a load of bullshit! Flints crew is down there right now celebrating the prize they think they already have. Flint has the schedule, not this woman or her seller! You've been played Jack."

Max backed away from the now standing Rackham, but was cornered by a prowling Vane, who had charged towards her, still voicing his displeasure. Max was nearly backed up to a wall, before she spoke fast, tone laced in reassurance and a slight hint of desperation.

"I assure you Singleton did not have the schedule, my seller does-"

Max was cut of by Vanes hand around her throat and hard slam into the wall she had been inching towards, to get away from the approaching pissed off Vane. The force of the slam made the room rattle, even the wall that Silver and Clara was currently using as a spy holes. Clara tensed, sure she was going to witness the murder of the woman she had only just met. A warm hand circled around her own hand, and Clara was greeted with Silvers light eyes on her instead of the peeping hole.

He smiled at her, not his bright smile, but a small reassuring one, one that was meant to calm her down. Clara tried to mimic it, in hopes of telling him she was fine without having to speak, not daring to with Vane so close. They were both pulled away from each other when Vanes voice reached new levels, and looking through the hole, Clara could see him snarling in Max's face. Claras hand tightened around Silvers, thankful for at least something to keep her from barging into the room and surely to her death.

"Stop pushing this, don't take me for a fool!"

Clara jumped away from the wall and Silver, not sure she could take any more of watching someone get strangled without doing anything to help. Her morals and survival instincts battled it out. She couldn't just sit there and watch, but if she went in there, she would likely not be coming back out breathing.

"Shit, do you have any weapons?"

She just couldn't do it, couldn't watch and wait for things to stop. She had killed that cook, and no, this wouldn't atone for that, but she could make damn sure she wouldn't be privy to another murder, especially one she had no part in. Silver pushed away from the wall stealthily, keeping an ear out for Vane and Jacks approach, but he too turned to Idelle, elaborating on Claras question.

"Like a candle holder, a heavy shoe?"

Idelle huffed, still looking bored despite what was happening next door, and Clara realized this must be common place here. She shuffled to a cabinet, reached behind it and a wall and pulled out, like a magician would a rabbit from a hat, a machete of all things. Silver chuckled and took the offered weapon, turning it side to side as he watched it glint in the sunlight pilfering in through the balcony window.

"That will do it."

Silver winked at Clara, but another wall shaking bang went off, making both of them dash back to the spy holes. Max was still pressed up to the wall, Vanes hand still enclosed around her long neck, but now her feet were of the ground, pinned between the unforgiving wall and a more unforgiving Vane. That's it, Clara couldn't watch any more. Before she could stand fully, Silver tugged her back down and pointed to the spy holes, whispering in Claras ear as she looked through.

"Look, She's telling us not to, let's just leave while we still can."

He was right, Max's hand, the one not trying to alleviate Vanes grip on her throat, was down at her side, waving them away with flicks of her wrist. She knew they were watching, and she wanted them to leave. That only made Claras resolve become more solid. The woman was getting bloody choked and was still trying her best to keep them hidden, either in telling them she could handle it, or in concern for their welfare. It didn't matter, not to Clara, and she pulled her way out from Silver and back away from the wall, face stony as Silver looked at her.

"Look, you have the schedule, you need to leave before they now were here, but I can't leave her getting choked. We'll meet back up later were we met today."

"You can't be serious Clara, you said yourself that man wants you dead and I have to agree! You go in there and you are not coming back out again. Don't be stupid, just come with me."

Silver had come away from their spying place too, snatching up her arm and leading her to another balcony, most likely planning to use it to climb down and leave this place in a rush, but as they made it outside to the balcony, Clara pulled her arm away, leaving Silver half bent over the railing.

"No, I can't. Look, I have something he wants, a link to Flint and his crew, killing me would be foolish. Trust me, you go, keep the schedule safe and I'll make sure our seller doesn't die. Keep away from Flints crew, they'll be swarming all over the place."

Silver huffed, but sighed when he saw the determination printed on Claras face. With a quick nod, he swung one leg over the railing, readying to drop down, when he stopped, perched on the railing and gave one last look to Clara, if she didn't know better, she would say he was looking regretful and apprehensive. But this was Silver she was talking about, so she pushed away those silly notions.

"I better see you in that street before nightfall Clara... Where else would I find a partner like you?"

Clara couldn't help it and chuckled. She highly doubted many people would, or could put up with a man like Silver and keep their sanity, she was having a hard time of it herself. Maybe she had lost her grip on reality already, she was about to willingly enter a room with a pissed of Vane to hopefully save a woman she did not know. Thinking better of it, she reached over to Silver and snatched the Machete he was still holding, Silver for his credit willingly handed it over. She was going to need it more than him.

"I'll be there, go or Vanes going to be storming in here any second... And give me that."

Then Silver smiled, swung his other leg over the railing and was gone in a drop. A hand falling onto her shoulder nearly made her swing the machete behind her, but halted when she was met with a more intrigued looking Idelle, smirking at the smaller Clara with twist to her rouged lips. Clara preferred a bored looking Idelle then... Whatever this Idelle was.

"Are you sure you're not married?"

Yes, bored Idelle was better than this. Scoffing, Clara pushed past the smirking brunette, before reaching the door to her likely doom, Clara spoke to Idelle over her shoulder.

"God forbid that was true, I would have killed myself a long time ago. "

Clara didn't wait for the sarcasm that was surely to come, instead wrapped her hand around the brass knob of the secret door, breathed in deeply, hoping her connection to Flint would At least make Vane reconsider on killing her, twisted the handle and pushed the door open with more force than was necessary, wanting this whole thing to be over and done with. Death or not.

Max was now in a huddle on the floor at Vanes feet, clutching at her neck and coughing harshly. Rackham was by the door to the room leading to the tavern, keeping guard Clara thought, and Vane, that smug, big bastard had his back to her, closer to her than the others in the room.

But he wasn't turned away from her for long. Jack was the first to see her, his eyebrows raising high on his forehand when he did spot her, Max didn't bother, or was too caught up with coughing, to spare Clara a glance.

But Vane... Vane slowly turned around, his profiled eye taking her in before he fully turned around to face Clara. A slow, taunting smirk graced his lips as his eyes squinted and locked on to her predatory. His foot steps seemed louder and more dangerous than the cannon fire on Captain Ludfords ship to Clara, and her hand tightened further on the machete at her side. His contradictory voice uttered one word as he smirk at her.

"You."

* * *

 **NEXT CHAPTER:** Vane and Clara clash once more, but the result is completely opposite to the last meeting they had, instead ending in an offer Clara is tempted to accept...

 ** _Merde-_** French meaning shit.

 **A.N- T** his is the longest chapter by far, clocking in at nearly seven thousand words. I'm sorry if long chapters aren't really your thing, but hopefully this will be the longest one, I normally average around 5K but Silver would not keep quiet, blame him not me.

I wanted this chapter to have some light hearted moments as Clara and Silver grow closer, but lets face it, the happy moments don't last long in a place like Nassau. The way I see Clara connecting with Silver and Vane is totally different. Silvers that charmer that sort of just draws you into their madness, while Vanes very intense and sort of just demands notice, and I hope that shows through in this chapter.

Clara having a piece of the schedule is very, VERY important for things to come, especially with Vanes plot line from the show. On to where Claras so easy with taking the schedule from Flint, I know some of you wont like that, but she has only just met him, and she did plan on selling the schedule, THEN going to Flint to tell him where it was, so getting money and helping Flint out at the same time. So yes she was crossing him, but at the same time not fully going over that line. Basically, Clara wanted her cake and to eat it too, which has obviously not worked out well for her.

As for pairings, it's still evenly matched, and I really mean evenly. So, I'm going to try and make it work out as a full on Silver/Clara/Vane story. Don't worry, I'm not planning for her to bounce between the two, if she gets with both of them, then it's not going to be because of her indecision. I, myself hate stories that have a multi pairing only because the protagonist can't choose one and keep to it, and plus it's sort of poetic, with Thomas, Flint and Miranda being mirrored in Claras choices and romances, but completely different to their own tale. Although that being said, Vane and Silver aren't going to be romantically involved with each other. Plus these are pirates, they're against everything to do with societies norms, including 'acceptable' loves and romances at the time.

So I will try and keep it as realistic as I can, as even as I can for the plot that's coming. As a reviewer said they would be a force to be reckoned with, and I really like the thought of having that play out. Because the way I see it, Vanes the feared name, the muscle so to speak, Silvers the charmer and can talk anyone around to his thinking, and Clara, eventually, would be the planner, the one to set things up to be knocked down by them. One hell of a team if you ask me.

So, enough of my mindless chatter, **THANKYOU** to all the reviewers, you guys are the best, literally. I hope I'm meeting up to your expectations for this story, and will continue to do so. I hope you liked this chapter and are ready for the real plot to start coming in!

Thankyou to all readers who enjoy... Whatever this madness my mind creates, have a great day, and please, if you feeling up to it and have the time, drop a review! :)- **GoWithTheFlo20**


	10. Game Over

"You're the seller?"

Rackham was the first to speak, breaking into the hefty atmosphere that had settled around them with as much grace as taking a hammer to a sculpture done by the great Michelangelo himself. He left his post at the other doorway, coming towards the spot where Clara had stepped through, but before he could pass the door way, Clara threw her machete out to block his path. She knew Silver was gone, and hopefully by now far away from Noonans, but she needed to buy as much time as she could to make sure they couldn't even spot a curl of his in the crowd.

One glimpse of Silver by Rackham or Vane and it was game over. They would know who the seller was, hunt him down and then Clara, Max and Silver would be of no use, non what-so-ever. It was best for all involved for Silver to be kept in the shadows... For now.

Although blocking Rackhams pathway to the room situated behind them, Clara wasn't stupid enough to take her eyes away from Vane who was standing a few feet in front of her. She was half afraid that one tiny diversion or distraction on her part would leave her in Max's place, crumpled and struggling for breathe at his feet, or worse. Schooling her features, Clara tried to construct a front of nonchalant around her, keeping her tone light, even when her vocal cords wanted to crack and strain under the pressure building there. One sniff of weakness, one fraction of a slip, Vane would pounce, Clara had no doubt about that.

"Not quite. I wouldn't bother, he's long gone. Threatening Max was not a good way of securing the deal."

Rackham stayed close, but backed away and to the side a few steps, peering around her and through the open door. Clara didn't mind, Silver was out of that room and as long as they stayed away from the balcony he had escaped from for a few moments more, she, Max and Silver would be categorically in the safe zone. Well, as safe as Clara would ever be in the same room as Vane. Which weren't great prospects even with holding something he wanted back from him.

Clara had to keep reminding herself she had gotten past Vane before, she could do it again if it came to it. Redundant to her own mind, knowing he had partially let her and she had had Flint and Silver backing her up the time before. But it did help with stealing her spine and the glare she sent towards a smirking Vane. Vane broke eye contact with Clara, looking down and towards a still scattered Max.

"You, Leave."

Max, now red in the face and still clutching at her swan like neck, peered up at Vane when he sent the command her way. It wasn't a question, wasn't a polite request, it was a demand. The way he said it, his emotionless tone and his discard of Max's obvious discomfort and haggard appearance, showed Clara he was a man used to being followed, without questions or arguments.

Clara almost smiled, he would have none of that when it came to her, she could hardly keep her mouth closed on a good day, on her worst or when angered, which seemed Vane had a specialty in bringing out of her, she acted and spoke like she had a death wish. A death wish Clara thought Vane would be too happy and willing to help her succeed in getting.

Max looked her way, her eyes wide, misty from all the coughing, beholding a silent question. She was asking Clara without words if she was going to be okay. Clara's confidence and resolve solidified in her veins, in her soul, making her stand taller then she had ever stood since stepping foot onto the sand of this island. She had done the right thing in coming into here instead of running in the opposite direction like her mind had screamed for her to do, and if this was her last act, she was glad it was a good one to go out to.

Clara sent a smile Max's way, hoping to ease the womans worries. Clara was going to be okay, she was going to get out of this, she would live to see another day, pissed off Vane or not. Clara had to, and would believe that. Vane would not be the one to close the curtains on her, she wouldn't allow the man such a monumental role in her life. She would die another day. Nodding, Clara whispered her answer, but it was heard by all in the shabby room.

"Go."

Max gathered her skirts up, clambered up and darted out of the room. Clara was relieved, she had come in here to make sure Max was safe, and she had done that, actually succeeded in her half witted plan. When she had first entered the room, saw Vanes taunting smirk, she had half the mind to think neither her or Max would be leaving this room. If Max had gotten out from this, even if she was being choked to death seconds before, so could Clara. Max's escape gave Clara hope for her own, but that smile that was still on Vanes face, grating up and through Claras confidence, told her it wasn't going to be easy... And definitely not without a lofty price tag to go along with it.

Vane circled around her with calculated sidesteps, Clara following his footing to keep him in front of her and away from her back, both stuck in an odd sort of dance. When He stepped, she stepped, like synchronized prowling of an injured deer or fowl, only to realize her mistake when it was already too late to correct. He was by the secret door now, closing it by reaching behind him blindly. And while she was distracted with him, Jack had taken up his station back at the other door, securely locking her in this hellish room with no exits, no way to escape with out having to take on either Rackham or Vane. The former being the optimal choice if push came to shove, but still unlikely of actually succeeding.

"I didn't think you would have been caught up in this... Double crossing your father when you seemed so loyal to him before."

Clara could feel her cheek twitch at Vanes candidly bringing Flint up, at her father being spoken about. By the widening of Vanes grin, he had done it on purpose and got the reaction he wanted from her. Claras fingers wound tighter around the machetes handle at her side, she needed to play it off, divert his probing of her buttons to press to get his desired responses. So, even if it was the last thing she wanted to do, she smiled toothily, almost easy in Vanes presence, trying her best to mimic Silver. Her temper would not get her out of this, but her mind would.

"I've only recently gotten involved. Can you blame me? Look around you... There aren't many professions for someone of my gender here that don't involve catering to the needs of men like you."

Vanes hand settled on a long, sharp knife strapped to his waist, fingers tapping away to some unheard tune playing in his head as he eyed her up and down. He didn't come away from the door, instead leaning against the corner of the connected walls with his shoulder, one foot crossed in front of the other. As if he was at perfect ease, as if he had everything under control, as if he had Clara under control. Clara couldn't stand for it, but at the same time didn't want to provoke Vane into beheading her before she could plan her way out of this, and away from the big fucker.

"Men like me? Sorry red, but there's no one quite like me. So that was your big plan? Get the money and sail away into the sun set?"

Vane pushed off from the wall, strolling towards her and Claras machete inched up slightly towards him, scowling as she did so. It didn't stop his approach and Clara had to lock her legs to refrain from backing away. So, Clara resorted to threats, half bluffing her way through her words. Both of them forgetting about Rackham by the other door, who was happy to just listen, and act when and if the time came for it.

"You take one more step towards me, you kill me, and it will end badly for you. How many women and men have seen you come barging into this room? Because a lot have seen me go into the room next door. It wont take long for Flint to piece the links together. Especially with a few choice coins here and there."

Vane stopped, hand coming away from his knife to hang down at his side. His smirk turning into a bemused smile, as if she had made a joke she wasn't aware of. Her death, or her possible death, was not something Clara was willing to make light of, leaving her confused and more than a sprinkle of worried at his hasty change of attitude.

"Kill you? No, I don't want to kill you, just to have a little chat."

Why did such a nice, simple word such as chat feel so ominous when passed through his smiling lips? Because it did, it really did. Before, back down in the tavern beneath their feet, when Bonny and Rackham had dragged her to meet him, he had said they could have been friends, and even then Clara knew that his definition of friends was the complete opposite of her own. Chat, from him, was exactly the same as him saying friends. Clara didn't want to chat, or to be friends with him, his definition or hers.

"A little chat? If you remember we've tried that before. Then you tried to have me kidnapped and got that cut along your chest for your efforts. If you want a round two, go ahead, lets chat."

Clara may know of the dangers of this, of Vane, but he needed reminding that she could bring her own trouble to the table. Admittedly, Clara knew the slice across his broad chest was a one in a million, a swish of lucks helpful hand on her part. But did he know that? Did he need to know that? No, Vane needed to believe she was not worth the hassle. But his smile bloomed once more, and instead of turning him off from this situation, she felt like she had enticed him further into it. She could have bit her own tongue off then.

"How long have you known Flint?"

Vanes question smacked her off her pedestal, momentarily making her frown in confusion rather then anger, blinking a few times to clear her befuddled head. Vane turned away from her, walked around her prone standing form and sat himself down on an open chair near them, pushed up by a round table. Was this a trap? Ask her and if she said only a little while, kill her off? Or to know how much of an impact her death would have on Flint? Turning her head, she stared at the waiting Vane, deciding on a noncommittal answer was the best bet.

"Long enough."

Vane chuckled, unsheathed his long knife that he had been tapping on, planted the blade into the table and proceeded to twirl the knife in circles, drilling a hole into the wood of the table, watching as the metal span and glinted in the bright yellow light of the sun rising behind him from the open balcony. It was sort of hypnotizing in a way, watching his fingers swirl around the handle causing the blade to spin faster and faster. Without much thought, Clara felt her body turning away from the now vacated door to the other room, an exit she could have easily made a dash for if her head had been securely on her shoulders. What game was Vane playing?

"Obviously not long then. You haven't been here long either. You still don't understand how things work here. I wasn't lying before, we could help each other out."

Clara shot a quick glimpse in Rackhams direction, happy he still hadn't moved from his spot, snuck up behind her and wasn't ready to dig a sword through her back with a nod from Vane. But her attention was back on Vane all too soon, wondering and pondering, then wondering again what he was getting at. She thought she made pretty clear where she stood on that offer, Clara wanted no part of it. Her voice was slightly higher pitched when she spoke, the frayed edges of her words giving away her confusion.

"Yes, I sell Flint out and you offer me this protection you keep hammering on about. I think I'm doing fine on my own thank you very much."

What a lie. Clara couldn't be further from fine. Her mother, Mary was dead, only to find out her real mother was alive, a pirate for a father, bruised, aching, confused. Vane sent a glance her way, as if he knew exactly how far from fine she was. Clara lips curled up involuntarily at his catch of her true emotions. But he only chuckled, still spinning the knife, other hand resting on his lap with his kicked out legs. Relaxed, he looked so relaxed that Clara had to fight down the urge to flip the table out from under him, anything to get him as on edge as he made her, to even out the playing field.

"No, protection is not what I'm offering. Flint could, and has easily given you that and you know it. But as you said, there isn't many jobs for women such as you self in this place. How long do you think you can get by, even if this deal goes through, before you have to resort to whoring yourself out to... What was it you said? Men like me?"

Clara stormed over and sat down in the chair opposite him. If she and Vane were going to have this conversation, they would be doing it eye to eye. Plus, with him so close, her machete wouldn't have far to go to implant itself through his skull. So tempting... So very very tempting.

"That's were you don't understand. I wont need to whore myself out-"

Vane cut her off, snatched out the spinning knife from the groove it had dug, holding it securely in his closed fist, and gave her a mocking stare. Clara reached up to the table, clasping the edge of it tightly, getting ready to haul herself out of the comfy chair if Vane moved an inch more. It would take a blind person not to see how easily they were outmatched when it came to a fight. Vane could kill her without a moments noticed, and even armed with a machete of all things, Clara wouldn't be able to put up much of a fight. She had no Silver or Flint to interrupt this time, to come in and save her arse.

"Why? Because daddy dearest will look after you? You don't seem to be the type to let that happen, but then again I could be wrong. Am I wrong Clara?"

He leaned closer towards her over the small table, elbow braced on it, arm crossed over his neck, fist under the side of his chin holding the glinting blade. Clara found herself copying his movements, cheeks flushing in anger at his jab at her character, at her intelligence, and as abstinent Clara was to admit such a thing, against his slight against Flint himself.

"Fuck your games, fuck your petty little remarks and fuck you!"

Vane slid back from Clara, arms folding neatly over his chest, his gaze still steady on her. Clara pulled away too, breathing heavier then she was before, from the adrenalin, from the anger, from Vane. He was like a tornado, whirling and ripping up her sanity and any semblance of her balance in his wake. She was too rash when it came to him, to quick with her words and less with her thoughts. And Vane, Vane wanted it that way. Whatever Vane wanted, Clara knew to stay as far away from that as possible, but he kept her off kilter so well, always second guessing him, herself, everything. She needed to get a grip on herself and keep it.

"I wouldn't be so hasty to die when you haven't even heard my deal yet."

Circles. Never ending circles was what made up this island, it was in everything. From routine, to piracy, to speaking to one another. She was surprised anyone in this place ever got anywhere with the way they went about things. Why couldn't they just state what they wanted, when they needed to instead of only giving you a taste that left you wanting more?

"Yes, spy on Flint, give you all his dirty little secrets. I. Wont. Do. It."

The smile was back, and Clara watched as Vane twirled the knife between and through his fingers gracefully. Sometimes, when the angle was just right and the sun shone on the metal, Clara could swear she could see her own eyes reflected back at her as Vane made the knife dance. Then, his voice broke her out of it, out of her skimming through answers only Vane had. His answer, which she wasn't expecting, felt like a solid punch to the gut, winding her in her seat. Of all things, she had not expected what he said next the most. Maybe it wasn't her who needed to check her sanity, it could very well be Vane who needed the doctor.

"No, not even that. I'm offering you a place on my crew."

Clara couldn't move, couldn't breath, could only wonder if he was being serious or if this was a giant joke on her. A test maybe? Another trap to walk into? Rackham came away from the door, his long coat flapping behind him as he walked over to a highly amused Vane. She almost connected to Rackham then, he looked as shocked at Vane as she was feeling. When Rackham reached Vane, who was still staring at Clara, he braced a hand on the back of Vanes chair and leaned down slightly.

"Wait.. What? Charles just yesterday this girl was out for your blood if you remember? Should we really be offering her a place on our ship? By the looks of her, she's more than likely to slit our throats in our sleep then actually be a part of our crew, or any help at all really."

The twirling of the knife stopped, and Vane flicked it back into the holder wrapped around his waist. Vane didn't spare a glance at Rackham, instead placing his forearms onto his spread knees, leaning forward and towards a still bewildered Clara.

"Exactly. Loyalty in Nassau is a hard thing to come by. It's no secret, by you running away, and the big chase that followed, that you didn't like Flint, or didn't want him around you. Yet you were still loyal to him at the end of it. You also charged in here for some whore, knowing full well I was in here. You join my crew, be loyal to me, and you'll have a steady income, a place to rest and more security then you need. No one will try anything if you're sailing under my colors."

 _Sailing under his colors._ Clara sagged back into her chair, head lolling against the high back and chuckled. She understood now. Everything fit together in her mind. Vane not killing her before, his amusement, him holding back yesterday when he could have easily snapped her neck when he had her pinned to the taverns sticky floor. This wasn't about her, not at all. She was just a link in a chain that led back to the man Vane was really after... Flint. Clara was starting to wonder if everything here, in this wasteland of lost men and women, led back to Flint, or just everything to do with her.

"I get it. I understand it now. This is one giant Fuck you to Flint. You want him gone, what better way to sow discord through his crew than having his own very daughter defect and join yours. This isn't about my loyalty, isn't about me at all. This is all you and Flint. I'm just the tool to take a hit at Flint, and have his crew go flocking to you when Flint is finally gone."

Clara lifted her head back up from staring at the damp stained ceiling, watching as Vane lent back in his chair, one of his hands running up his thigh as he pulled back, his head cocked to the side as he took in her oddly placed laughter. She couldn't help it, she never thought she would have figured out Vanes game, yet here she was, nearly a hundred percent sure she had it all mapped out in her head.

Vane wanted Flints crew and the man in question gone. With Flint gone, Vane would be top dog in this place, and Clara, in Vanes eyes, thought she was the key to this coming about. Clara nearly laughed again at the ridiculousness of it all. Clara had never been the key to anything in her life, always a background character or the one no one heard about. just a body to fill in the crowds, to give depth for the real stars of the show to shine.

"Does it matter who this is about? Me, you, Jack, Flint, none of it matters. You'll be getting everything you need to survive on this island. Being Flints daughter will only hold the wolfs off for so long, then what? Lay down and take it? No, I can't see you doing that and if you're honest with yourself, you can't either. You and I both know that now Flint has you on this island, he ain't letting you off again. And although you will be a part of my crew, I can at least offer you the freedom of having your own shares of prizes and sailing off to other lands. Would Flint offer the same? Or keep you locked up?"

Rackham pulled away from the both of them as some humanoid silhouettes passed the glass of the door, creeping over, pulling the sheer lace back to peek out. Obviously not bothered by who had passed, as he let the lace curtain drop and turned back to face Vane and Clara. Clara was too sweeped up in Vane to even bother to be hopeful or worried about who had swaggered past.

"Yes, you're also offering me to go off and kill innocent people for money. It doesn't sound so pretty my way does it?"

Vane scoffed, a deep guttural sound that came from the back of his throat, making Clara think of a wolfs grumble before the beast would snarl.

"Innocent people? Don't make me laugh. They're just as bad as we are. You're English aren't you? Not very high up from your clothes or the slang to your words. Did they ever help you? Ever even look your way when you needed it? No, because they only care for themselves."

His words were to close to how Clara felt that it shook her up slightly. How many times had she berated the lords and ladies in her head? Thought about them with more than a hint of disgust at their behavior or lack of compassion? But she couldn't let him too close, couldn't let Vane know how his own words resounded inside of her. He just wanted her for Flint, and she would not be used in such a way. Her pride, her self worth, even her self doubt would not let her fall into such an arrangement. She wasn't something to be picked up when needed and thrown back down once the job was done.

"And you lot don't? When Flint took over the ship I was on, there was a man, Mccaffer, one of the kindest people I knew. Do you know what happened to him? They slaughtered him, stuck a cutlass right through his chest and threw him overboard like he was nothing. And you want me to be a part of that? Will the same happen to me when I outlive my usefullness?"

It hurt a lot more then Clara expected when she brought up Mccaffer. The kind old man who stuck by her on her long voyage, even when she was throwing her guts up in heaves that matched the pace of the tides that would rock the ship. Life wasn't fair, Clara knew that more then anyone, but she refused, downright denied, that she would do the same thing that had happened to Mccaffer to another unsuspecting victim.

But then again, as the cooks face flashed in her minds eye, she realized she already had. She didn't know the cook, he may have had a family, a child to go home to. And she had snatched that away from them, for her own sake, her own well being. Was she any different then the man in front of her? the answer was a lot more muddled than Clara would have liked it to be, and she had to swallow down the bile that was threatening to rise.

"Well, that's the difference isn't it? That was Flints Crew. Not mine. He would have been offered a place on my ship if it had have been me."

Vane, Clara found, was a lot less adapt at Silvers verbal skirt arounds, or his innocent act. Vane was too gruff, to brutally honest in facial expressions, to pull such a thing off completely. Something Clara could sympathize with. Clara also realized the two men, as opposite as night and day, had their own tell tale signs of how to figure them out. Vane with his expressions and unguarded, almost brutish manner of speech, and Silver, you could figure him out by what he didn't say instead of what he did. Her tone was cool when she did speak, nearly glacial.

"Are you trying to tell me you don't kill people? You can't possibly think I would believe that you're the saint of the seven seas. You didn't get to the top by being a nice guy, it doesn't work that way."

"No it doesn't. and you think the Captains of legal ships are somehow different? Just because someone with a crown put their name next to theirs? The only reason your ship ended up in pieces was because they refused to surrender. They brought the fight, not Flint. That Captain of the ship was just as responsible for that mans life as Flint was. But because he had a fucking blue coat, because he wasn't smart enough to realize when he was out gunned, he and his crew died."

That... That was a bitter pill to take down for Clara. She hadn't of thought of it that way, it hadn't even crossed her mind to think about the whole thing from Flints, or any pirates point of view before. But then again, she hadn't had time to give much thought to anything else but getting out of the messes she found herself frequently in. If Captain Ludford had surrendered, would she still be on her way to Boston, non the wiser? Would Mccaffer still have a pumping heart beat? Would the cooks face not haunt her, or his blood stain her hands?

Clara had to physically shake her head, sending her curls flying, to bring herself back to the present. She could think that through later, now she had to be on top of herself. Vane was trying to get inside her head, and feeling... Dare she say it, sympathy for him or Flint or any of these people on this island wasn't going to help her leave this room in tact. Get back to topic, and stay there Clara decided.

"It doesn't change that you want me to fuck Flint over. What do you think he will do to me when he finds out?"

Vane waved her worry off with a wave of his hand. Not bothered, not flustered, not nearly as disgruntled as Clara was. She breathed in a deep breath through her nose, steadying her nerves.

"Nothing. He wont risk his crew, or other Captains tempers by killing off someone who decided to go to another ship. As loose as our code is, we still have one."

Vane sent a glance to Rackham, the first one since he had laid eyes on Clara and it somehow managed to settle her when he wasn't directly looking at her, his weighty eyes not baring down on her. With a nod from Rackham, Vane stood from his chair, looming figure staring down at her and Clara wanted him to go back to looking at Rackham. She was so used to going unseen in London, just another person struggling to get by, that to have such a focus, pin point gaze on her, made goose bumps creep down the back of her neck.

"You have until tonight, after the deal goes down, then I want my answer. Join or don't. Think it through Clara, and be smart about it. I won't offer this again."

Clara bit her cheek to stop herself from giving him a sharp retort, something he must have figured out by the upturned twist of his lips. Nodding, Clara pushed out of her seat and towards the door Rackham was guarding, thinking he was letting her leave... Foolishly. For as she took two steps past him, his hand shot out and snagged her shoulder, pulling her back towards him, and with a well aimed twist to her wrist, he had her machete in his hands. Clara swore under her breath as Vane simply threw her only weapon behind him without a care.

"Just because I've given you time, doesn't mean you can leave. You know the seller, you know the deal, I can't have you running off to Flint to spill it can I? You're coming with us."

He really had let her get away with more than she should have last time, or had underestimated her severely. She knew that now by seeing first hand how fast he could move when he wanted to. Her wrist was twisted and the machete behind him and away from both of them before she could fully blink. Today however, he seemed not to be taking chances, even going as far as tapping her boot, the one closest to him, with the tip of his own, smiling when all he hit was ankle.

"Charles, you really can't expect her to-"

"I do, she'll see I'm right in the end, when this deal falls through like I said it would."

A crumb, a little piece of leverage, no matter how disappointingly useless it could turn out to be. Vane was against this deal, Rackham wasn't. It seemed to Clara that Flints ship wasn't the only one with tension. Now was obviously not the time to use it, but later, later it might prove life saving. So she would scurry it away like a squirrel would with its chestnuts for winters oncoming.

Clara smacked his hand away from her shoulder, having to use her full weight behind it to even get the limb to budge, but it was pointless. As soon as the hand was gone from her shoulder, it was wrapped tightly around her bicep, causing Clara to ground her words through her clenched teeth to Vane.

"Don't hold your breath."

"I wont need to when the sun sets and you see I'm right. Face it Clara, I'm your best bet at a life here, not just surviving. Jack, find Bonny, meet us back at the tavern an hour before we leave for the rocks to meet this mystery buyer."

With a sharp tug, Vane and Clara was in movement, pushing past Rackham and through the swinging door Vane had thrown open. When they reached the winding steps, Clara tried to spot Max, but couldn't see the woman anywhere among the vast throng of people blockading her view, and she had to divert her attention back to her feet when she nearly stumbled down the first step of the flaking white stairs.

Her free arm caught her eye, her hand wrapped in bandages more truthfully did. The deal was bound to fall through, she had the goddamned ripped part of it! But then Clara settled, her nerves stopped zapping and her heart beat slowed down. She had a part of the schedule. Vane didn't know that, Flint didn't know that. Silver and Max were the only two who did.

If things went to plan, and Silver hadn't already tried selling his part off already after Vanes appearance earlier that day, then she had something momentous to bargain with, to hold above their heads as they jumped and grappled for it. The small, folded piece of paper shoved into her bandages were her key to... To anything she wanted.

Although Vanes offer was solely self servicing, Clara would admit it was just as tempting. By now, she knew she wasn't going to get off this island, not really sure she wanted to a part from knowing she didn't want anyone lording over her. Vane was also true about Flint, he would expect her to be hurried away and secure in Mirandas and his house. That just didn't sit right with her. But to actually take Vane up on his offer, was that her only option? Her best one?

Claras eyes squeezed shut before opening back up widely as they made it to the last step and into the crowd. She had too many warring thoughts, to many roads she could go down. She needed to take her time, not rush it, plan it out. She had the key, but the sun was sinking lower with every passing second, the clock ticking away her chances. What the hell was she going to do?

* * *

NEXT CHAPTER: The deal for the schedule goes down...

A.N: There isn't much to say about this chapter, so I'll keep the note short and simply thank everyone who was lovely enough to leave a review, you guys are why this thing keeps continuing, and I really hope you liked this chapter. And a big thank you to everyone who has favorited, followed or simply kept on reading! So, if you have a spare minute or two, drop a review! It's much appreciated!- GoWithTheFlo20


	11. Looming Mast's

Clara stared at the looming and flickering shadows of the scraggy formation of rocks in front of her. Every now and again, she could spot the rotting and broken wood of a mast jutting out and into the horizon from numerous ship wrecks, the approaching night smothering everything in a ghostly pale hue of the rising moon. Rackham, holding a flaming torch, Vane and Clara stood on a little sandy pathway that snaked its way into the maze of stones, Rackham looking the most dubious out of them despite his determination and favor for this plan.

Vane was the first to step through and on to the path, Clara not far behind and Rackham following up behind her, illuminating a small bubble around them in yellow and orange luster. It wasn't long before they came to some sort of opening, well a extended space free of jagged and slanted rocks was more accurate.

It was all quite surreal to Clara, walking freely with Vane and Rackham through coves of shadows and jutting structures mother nature had created herself. She would have asked herself how she had ended up here, but she knew the play out all to well, like the memories were branded on her mind for all of time. The only problem was right now in this very second, she didn't know if it was defective decisions that had led her here, or some form of riotous premonition to a better future. She wouldn't know until all this played out to its ending.

Clara was on edge, more then on edge if she was truthful, she felt like she had one foot on solid land and another hanging over a vast chasm of oblivion. Silver, it all came back to him lately, could be here, readying for the deal that was about to go down. Or, he could have scampered after she didn't turn up, presuming she would have died by Vanes hands back in Max's room. She knew if the tables were turned, she would think the same about him, and would likely run for it too. Cutting a stealthy look to the back of Vane, she pondered if she would die after all, if Silver failed to show his face.

But no, Vane had said he was expecting this deal to go south, that's partially why he had hauled her here wasn't it? So she could see first hand, to finally, in his eyes, know that he was her best option in this hell hole. The pad of her thumb brushed the rough fabric wrapped around her hand and wrist. Even if Silver showed and sold the part of the schedule he had, she still had a piece. Should she hand it over to Vane, fuck Flint and his crew? Or if Silver didn't show, should she try and run for it, find Flint, give it to him?

There was too many variables, to many options. Her own actions relied on other peoples actions too much, she hated it. Loathed it so much the pit of her stomach rebelled and burned at the realization. But it was all hopeless, in this chess board of Nassau, she was a lowly pawn playing the bigger pieces game. That physically and emotionally hurt more than her having to wait things out.

A man, old and frail, wrinkles decorating his withered face and dustings of copious amount of grey hair on his head, stepped out from behind a rock, and for a moment, Clara thought he was just a passer by, someone who had taken the same path they had. But coincidences didn't happen all to often in real life, and this instance wasn't one either, Clara realized when the hunched man hobbled over to Rackham with an open palm, voice raspy and croaky when he spoke.

"The pearls... He says give me the pearls..."

His words were broken up by stilted and loud breaths that seemed to bounce off the rocks surrounding them. Old, he was so very old... And so very not Silver. It was clever really, sending a proxy in his place in case things took a bloodier turn. Clara glanced around her, spying the shadowed rocks, which one was Silver hiding behind? Because Clara knew he was here, he may not be showing his face, but he would want to see the transaction take place.

Clara wondered if he could see her, if he could see the firelight reflecting the anger dancing in her eyes. She wondered how long he waited in that alleyway, until he thought fuck it, Claras dead but I still want my money. Clara shook it off, knowing the bastard, he knew exactly how this whole thing would have played out. Knew Vane would drag her here and force her into selling her piece of the schedule along with his, equaling to the same fate as if she never tore a piece off in the first place. Silver would tell Vane, he would have to for his own sake, when Vane saw the ripped part of the paper, Silver would come clean, successfully backing her into a corner she had no hope of getting out from.

Because if... When... Vane found out she had a part of this magical piece of paper everyone was hunting, he would simply take it from her and she would be well and surely out of her share of money, maybe even her life. All the while, Max and bloody John Silver would skip off into the rainbow, leaving her to pay the price. Was this why he let her go into that room so easily? Was this their plan all along? Fuck him and fuck Max. Clara could almost feel her teeth crack under the power of her clenched jaw.

Rackham let out a long sigh, as if his days had been to long and the profits to measly to be dealing with any of this, Clara could sympathize with him on this. Instead, with a board air and a humorless lilt to his tone, he addressed the beggar man.

"And did this man say anything else?"

The old man stared, and stared, and stared. Deeply grooved palm still reaching out towards Rackham with a tremor to it that spoke of decades lived rather than errant nerves. Rackham nearly dropped the flaming torched into the sand as he reached for his belt, a blue velvet purse dangling from his belt. Rackhams fingers had just brushed the material when the tanned and large hand of Vane slapped his hand away from their goal.

For the first time since leaving the brothel, Clara took in Vanes face. Murderous, Vane looked downright murderous. It wasn't long before his booming voice was ringing over the wasteland of broken ships and rocks, tone perfectly matching his expression.

"I know you can hear me, if you want your fucking money you better show your face! That's the only way this gets done!"

Rackham squared around to Vane, disbelief tinged with his own rising temper creasing his eyes and thinning his lips. Clara wondered if they would save Silver the trouble and just turn on each other, leaving the pearls unguarded and ready to be pinched with light fingers. But no, lately Clara had been wrong in her estimations, and just like before she was wrong this time.

Vane reached for his belt, unsheathed his dagger and planted it in the old mans stomach before anyone could say a word to stop him, doubtful he would have stopped even if one of them voiced their opinion anyhow. With a vicious twist of Vanes knife, the breath of the old man, still croaky, escaped in a gush and he fell to the floor in a little storm of disturbed sand.

Clara grimaced, breathed deeply in through her nose, but otherwise did nothing. The man was dead, there was nothing she could do for him now, and some dark little voice housed in the back of her mind, whispered she wouldn't of done anything anyway. That it was the old mans fault for getting into this mess in the first place, it wasn't her place, nor her concern to look out for him.

Clara grimaced harder at her own mental tirade. Not but two, three at a push, weeks ago she was all too willing to jump in head first to save Captain Ludford. To make Flint and his crew see how bad they were. Now here she was, watching an elderly man die, feeling nothing but a spasm of regret in her sternum. Nothing more, nothing less. Who the hell was she turning into? How long would it be before instead of only being an idle bystander, would she be the one doing the stabbing?

The flash of the cooks face, and the lack of oomph it had on her emotions told Clara it would be a lot sooner than she would ever liked it to be. Because tonight, if it came to it, if Vane does turn on her and Clara miraculously gets the upper hand, a good shot to dig a knife into, she would take it without a second thought.

"Now come out and face me! Or these pearls will go back to where they belong!"

Even as he shouted, Vane didn't spare the dead person at his feet another glance, stepping over a limp arm as he stared out to the vast ocean of rocks. A rattle of a pebble being kicked made all three, Vane, Clara and Rackham swivel their heads to the new comer who had crept up from behind a rock and had stumbled towards them. From the corner of her eye, she could see Vane smirk, a smug little twist to his lips.

Clara only wanted to sigh in frustration, maybe even stomp her foot at the game they were playing. Vane obviously thought this bolding, straw haired drunk was Silver. How many people would Silver send out? How many people would be laying at their feet before either Silvers stubbornness waned, he fled, or Vanes anger and bloodlust would get the better of them? Clara thought Vanes temper would be the first to snap in this stalemate.

The man stumbled to Rackham, hand out reached like the other poor soul laying face first in the sand. Then, with only a few words, echoed by his predecessor, did Vanes smirk fall and cause his nostrils to flare in unbridled rage.

"He says give me the pearls."

Clara had the urge to hunt Silver down herself, damn Vane or Rackham. It wasn't his life he was playing with, dangling in front of Vanes snarling mouth. Clara would be the first to feel the pirate Captains wrath if he did snap, Silver must know this, god even Rackham did from the worried look he shot in her direction. No, Silver didn't care if she died tonight, and with the way she was feeling right now, she didn't care if he died either. In fact, her mind was playing over scenarios of her beating the hell right out of him as she stood there in spiraling shadows.

Vane slowly turned towards her, the light from the torch making his eyes glow. However, an ear ringing bang rang out over the terrain, making Clara scuttle to the side, and even Rackham stumble backwards a few steps. Sparks of white and light yellow splintered out from behind a large rock not a few feet away from them, up on an incline. Gun fire. Someone was being shot at, and Clara knew without a doubt it was Silver who was on the receiving end. The only people who knew about this whole thing were standing in this tight circle... And the chosen few Flints crew.

Which meant Flint, or a member of his crew had finally caught up to Silver. By the sound of dashing feet, more than one pair, the shot was a miss, and now this had turned into a goose chase. Vane, Rackham and Clara jumped into action, running up the incline and into the direction of the pounding footsteps and shots being fired off.

Clara shouldn't have followed, she should have taken the shot for what it was for her, a distraction to get the hell out of dodge. But yet, her feet moved with an urgency she couldn't link to anything her jumbled emotions shouted out at her. Wasn't she just picturing Silvers death vividly in her mind, by her own hands no less? Then why now, when it was a very possible outcome, did she want to find the bloody bastard and stop it from happening? Even if it meant putting her own neck on the dotted line? Did anything in Nassau, in her own life, make sense anymore?

Vane reached over, snatched her arm up and twirled her around a obscured corner, the sound of running being louder there as they ran, darted, and twisted around the narrow path. And Clara realized no, no nothing made sense anymore. Not Silver, not Vane, not Flint and definitely not herself. She had well and dauntlessly fallen down a rabbit hole, looked too long into a looking glass. This place was mad, they were all mad, and she was slowly going mad too. The worst thing? Clara couldn't really bring herself to care about her level of mental stability.

Clara didn't know how long they ran for, Vane and her side by side, heads darting around to try and get a whisper of a noise, a trail to track down. Even when the noises stopped coming, and there was no hope to try and re-find Silver or his pursuers, they still jogged. The darkness of the night was well upon them now, making it hard even to spot a hand right in front of your own face, and Rackham was no where in their limited sight, most likely having been separated from them in the mad dash.

They came to a small opening, one where the moon shine was brighter and freer to light up the space. They both stopped, Vane looking around them to try and spot something, anything, and Clara because she needed to catch her breath. With a scoff from Vane, Clara knew the gig was up and slumped to the floor, sitting with her back against a cool stone, knees up, arms resting over them as she breathed deeply, trying to regulate her breath.

"Where you in on this fucking fiasco?"

Vane leveled her with a fierce glare, one equally matched with her own at the accusation thrown her way. Her head came up from resting between her open legs, lolling onto the back of the rock as she looked at Vane.

"Where would I have had the time to? Between you and Flint, you've both kept me on my toes since I stepped foot on this damned island!"

He regarded her for a scarce tense moments, both not sure on who was going to do or say what. Then, he reached in to his coat pocket, pulled out a cigar and a match, lit it, and dragged in a long gush of tobacco smoke. The flare of the lighted match, for the few second of light it gave, made his face flash in the dark, then the light was gone with a flick of his wrist, leaving them both to the secrecy of dimness once more. His voice was sleek when he spoke, Clara just being able to just make out the swirl of smoke that accompanied his words.

"You could have legged it when the first shot rang out, why didn't you?"

Wasn't that the loaded question, and earnestly, Clara didn't have a clear answer to give him. It was a muddled puddle of murky answers, she wanted to see Silver alive, a part of her thought Vanes offer was just too enticing, and the other answers, well even she didn't know them. So she settled on the easiest one to give, her own survival.

"Like I said back in that whore house, not many jobs around here for people like me. And I don't want to be stuck on this island everyday of the rest of my life... You're the only person whose offered me an alternative."

Her last sentence didn't fit right on her tongue, it felt like it contained more meaning than she had wanted it to. She had only wanted her explanations to be just that, a cold, almost clinical explanation. Instead it felt like she had given away a weakness, told a secret she didn't want to. The feeling of being alone, conclusively alienated in a foreign place, with no ground under her feet hit her like a bull in the chest.

Madness and irrational, she was on a slippery slope indeed. Thankfully, Vane didn't pry into it, or hadn't clocked on to her sudden uncomfortable-ness. He flicked the butt of his cigar to the ground, stomped on its embers and reached a hand out in front of her, for once not snatching up a limb or trying to drag her off. She didn't know which was worse, his man handling or his sudden new found manners.

"Come on, you need to stay out of sight for the next few days, maybe a week until this blows over. You can use my tent until one of the crew can set your own up."

Light, jovial slightly and simple. That's what his words were meant to be, but he knew, she knew, they both understood it held a deeper meaning. He was asking for her answer to his offer. Take his hand, join the crew, or stay here... Alone. Before she could think things through properly, her hand was already clasping his, she was being heaved up on her feet, and both were off being swallowed up by the blanketing night as they left the rocks behind.

 **~TIME SKIP~ONE WEEK LATER~TIMES SKIP~**

It had been a week, a whole week of nothing but the interior of Vanes tent and the sporadic visit from the man himself, Rackham looking for said man, or Gareth, a new ship mate of the Ranger that had taken a appreciation to her and would chat with Clara when he had the spare time. They had found common ground as unlikely as it seemed, both being new to the island, new to piracy and the people around them.

However, Gareth had one up on her. He was already fractionally accepted by the hard faced men of the Ranger within days. He didn't have a link to another Captain that was widely known, he wasn't five foot three, he wasn't a woman and he had Vane backing him up a hundred percent. Yes, Clara should have seen it coming, life was never easy and this place, these people were full of glittering words and tricks of light. That week, Clara found Vanes version of being a crew mate was her version of being a glorified prisoner. Something to dangle over Flint like a bully would to a smaller child.

But that didn't make sense either. Vane wouldn't let her leave the bloody tent, he had Rackham or Gareth, more often than not Gareth, take guard, bring her food and anything else she needed. What was the point of getting her under his clutches to provoke Flint, if he never let Flint get a glimpse of her? It was just past the full week mark, night once again falling around them, when Clara voiced her questions to Vane, or more accurately, he stayed more than two seconds for her to open her mouth.

Clara had been sitting on a thread bare rug, pushed up by the tatty tents wall, the fabric holding holes she could peek through and people watch. It was a slow past time, but infinitely valuable. You picked up little things, inconsequential to many others, when people thought they weren't being watched. A big bold headed man, a crew member of the Ranger, with more tattoos than she could count, had a thing for a younger man. She could tell by the way he observed him sometimes, when they passed crates or barrels between them, he would rush to help the smaller man, his hand skimming the others longer than necessary. She also knew the younger man didn't have a clue at all about the larger mans infatuation.

Another man had a unyielding drinking problem and habitually borrowed from other shipmates to feed the addiction, although there was no hope of him ever paying it back. Not by the amount he had borrowed, and that was only from what Clara had seen herself, god knows how much he had dug himself into debt without her prying eyes watching.

Another one, weasel like faced and pox marked, was actually relaying information to another pirate Captain, a Hornigold if she had heard right, about Vane and his goings on. The imbecile was hardly secretive about it, meeting up with a hooded man not far from Vanes tent, shadily looking around him, Clara was surprised no one had clocked on to him yet. However, not many people seemed to have hours on end to waste away.

And there was so many others, secrets and lies and hidden agendas Clara had seen and heard from her hidey hole. Of course, she could have handed this all over to Rackham, or Vane himself, but where was the fun in that? She may be able to use these little tidbits to her advantage later on, if she ever managed to get out of this damned tent and into an actual situation she could have any sway on.

"Do you always have to be in that exact spot?"

Clara twisted around from facing one of the many holes she spied from. At the entrance of the tent, sweating slightly and with a certain tenseness to his jaw line was Vane himself. He let go of the flap of the tent, marched over to his pile of make shift silk pillows and throws that formed a sort of bed, flopped down and unlaced his boots, kicking them off harder than she thought was necessary.

"Were else would I be? You wont let me leave and you would be astounded with what you could learn if you actually spent more than a second watching your crew."

Vane huffed in exasperation, canted himself up and over to a small table, plucking up a half empty bottle of rum. Popping the cork, he drank profoundly from the blue blown glass as he eyed her, before making his way to a chair, sitting down and kicking his feet up on the table beside it, still drinking from his bottle of calming liquor.

"I thought I told you. The crew just needs to get used to the idea of another woman ship mate. Give it time, they're just weary."

"Weary? The few that have seen me when I've been actually allowed outside don't look weary Vane. They look violent."

Vane took another extensive chug of his rum. Feeling caged, cornered and more than sparingly regretful of taking Vanes hand back on that fateful night, Clara pulled herself up and started to pace. She should have told him to fuck off, to damn the consequences of Vanes backlashes. She should have found Silver, even now, she didn't know weither he was dead and decaying, or alive.

And if he was alive, what state was he in? Was he with Flint? Had he managed to get off the island? If he had, did he take the schedule with him, making her small piece of paper absolutely unusable? Why the hell did she care? Dammit, her mind was descending into that whirlpool again, a pointless drag of questions and theories that left her with more worries than one body could handle. There was no point in trying to cease her mind either, it was like swimming against a current with your arms tied behind your back.

"Win them over then. You'll figure it out."

"Win them over? How the hell am I supposed to do that? Bake them bread or a nice fucking cake?"

Vane had stopped his decimation on his stock of rum and looked at her, concise smile spreading across his lips. Clara had no clue what he found pleasing, Vanes humor could be classed as the tenth wonder of the world, right after her decision making of course. Why, why, why did she take his hand?

"Baker? You're a baker? I can't see you dithering over a stove all day. However, setting someone on fire I can."

Claras pacing stopped as she pirouetted to fully face Vane. Instead of a scathing expression, which she thought would go along with his jab at her character, he was still smirking. Clara chuckled, knowing now what he was trying to do. The tick in his jaw was lessoning, Claras internal panic attack was gone. He was trying to give them both an out, even for a little while. Some time away from dealing with the shit that just kept piling up around them.

"Who says I didn't do both? There's a lot you don't know about me."

It was meant as a delicate rebuff, to keep the easy going banter on a roll. But Vanes face sobered and he gave Clara a searching look. One that left her really, positively uncomfortable for some reason.

"No. I don't suppose I do."

Not willing to face Vane head on anymore than she had to, Clara turned around and walked back to the edge of the tent, hooking a finger through another hole and pulling it wider as she peaked back outside. It was dark now, the only light coming from the small camp fires set up, and the odd torch here and there. The ruffling of the tents entrance snapped her out of her people watching, making her head snap in the direction the noise came from, Clara didn't know what to do.

The blonde women, Eleanor Guthrie if she remembered correctly, had come sliding into the tent in a rush, and as soon as the flaps had flipped closed, her hands went straight to her leather corset, fingers flicking open the shiny brass buttons with ease of countless practice. Eleanor didn't spare a single glance around the room, obviously not spotting Clara in the corner, no, her eyes were for Vane only and within seconds her corset was off, her shirt un-tucked and being slipped off as well.

Clara was about to let out a very undignified, high pitched wait, or something along a similar line, when Vane did the job for her. relinquishing his nearly empty bottle of rum on to the table with a dull thud and clink, he coughed and nodded over to Clara.

Eleanor huffed, but when she turned around in a swirl of half exposed flesh, with promise of more being exposed, and actually saw the red head in the corner, she dropped her shirt back into place as if the cotton had charred her palms. Clara could see the confusion blossom on her face immediately, only to turn sour like milk, into anger.

"What the fuck is she doing here? Flints been hunting for her like a man possessed!"

Vane let his legs drop off from the table and back on to the rug and sand floor, pulling himself out of his chair, he walked around it, index finger gliding over the gloss wood as he went around the desk and towards Eleanor, attention solely on the flustered and spitting blonde.

"She's a part of my crew. Where else would she be?"

Eleanors frown accentuated as she glanced towards Clara as if she held all the answers. But the short red head was just as lost as she was. Not for the same reasons granted. Eleanor was baffled at this sudden turn around. Clara was perplexed at what Vane was doing. He was giving her the perfect opportunity to tell Eleanor she wasn't, that she desired to go back to Flint. If she did that, Vane would have to oblige. Clara had not seen much of Nassau, but she knew back when her and Vane were sprawled across the floor of mister Noonans, the way the drunken pirates had looked at Eleanor just as much as Flint that this woman right in front of her held say, governed authority here.

And the true bewildering event of it all, was Vane comprehended this. She could glean it from his face when he too looked at her for her answer to the unasked inquiry Eleanor was throwing her way. If she said no, she would be back with Flint, back with that warm woman Miranda, this whole thing behind her. A summer dream that she could erase. If Clara was being honest with herself, she couldn't forget. Because that meant forgetting Mccaffer. Forgetting Captain Ludford. Forgetting her own sense of worth and pride. She could, would make it out here, in this sunny other world by her own merit, by her own actions. She needed to. Nodding, Clara kept it simple.

"What he said."

Eleanor blundered for a moment, opening and shutting her mouth like a fish, but whatever she was going to say would be forever forgotten as a cry, anguishing and full of despair shattered the night. Then like a phantom bringing ominous tidings, Rackham was at the tents entrance, talking brusquely before he even absorbed in Eleanor or Claras presence.

"Charles, you really need to do something about this. Max is-"

He spotted Eleanor and Clara in time to cut himself off, but not before damning himself by one single name. Max. Eleanor was gone in a flare of bouncing blonde curls, Vane not far behind, and Rackham following as soon as his Captain stepped out into the cooling air. It took longer for Clara to compute, to get her feet into motion rather than frozen bricks. But when she did, it didn't take her long to catch up to the others charging their way across the beach, weaving through tents and cheerful bystanders.

They mustn't have known Clara had followed, no one sent her a lone glance, or an order to go back. But Clara found she did not care, not one bit, when she got to what had sent that heartbreaking cry out through the air.

There was a circle of whooping and leering men, a stack of wrapped hay, and a chained Max. Her skirts were absent, her face bloodied, and a man behind her, doing the most horrid thing you could possible do to any woman. Claras heart jumped to her throat, her blood became a frigid chugging through her veins, making her ears ring and she couldn't breath. Dear god, she couldn't think.

A tug on her arm brought her away from the nightmarish scene of debauchery of the worst kind, and Clara blinked up owlishly to a stern looking Rackham. He jostled her in to the crowd, situating her between himself and another nameless man, just behind Vane.

"Can't you possibly just stay out of one thing, not rush in head first? Keep your head down, and stay out of sight... For all our sakes."

Rackham whipped his hat off, dropping it on Claras own head, trying fruitlessly to push the curls into secrecy and obedience, only for his hand to flop to his side when he realized it was a hopeless act. Still not being able to find her voice, still stupefied, when Rackham nodded over to another group heading there way, all Clara could do was stare vacantly at Flints arrival.

Flint, he was here and all of a sudden, Clara wanted nothing more than to run to him. To leave this... This monstrosity of humanity all gathered in a circle. Clara clenched her eyes closed, so rigidly her nose screwed up at the same time. Breathing deeply through an open mouth, Clara urged the sick, the anger, the dazedness away as hard as she could. Running, a shaky hand down her face, scrubbing stiffly at her eyes, she tried to get herself together.

With an even more shaky inhalation of air, she squared her shoulders, and opened her blue eyes, refusing to look down at... At something she would refrain from taking in ever again. She focused in on Flint, grim faced Flint and a bob of onyx curls at his side. It took a re-take for Clara to determine who had shown up beside her father.

Silver. Not only was he alive, he was unharmed, and still standing by Flints side. Clara went to take a step forward, but Rackhams hand on her shoulder stopped her from proceeding further. And that warm, heavy hand on her joint, brought her back down to earth. It was just in time to see what Eleanor was up to, as the blonde whirled around the circle of men, large driftwood club in her hands as she swung and bashed her way through the people, pushing them further back and away from Max.

It was all happening so fast, to many things to grasp onto a thought train and keep it. Clara found herself being flung from one thing to another, Flint, Vane, Max, Silvers survival and obvious alliance and her own predicament. Then she was bounced to Eleanor, who had settled down to bubbling ferocity. The silent kind that was more unnerving than yelling and raging could ever reach. She had locked on to Vane, driftwood weapon pointed viciously at him, betrayal laced tears misting her bright eyes.

"You... You did this."

Then her silent anger turned to furious yelling as she whirled on the people gathered around the ghastly scene. flushed face turning ruddy red, veins in her neck becoming more prominent as she raged her anger at them, at the sky, at Vane.

"You're all finished here! You will not live! You will not sell! And you will not sail! Finished! You hear me!"

For some reason, Claras mind cleared, her spine straightened and her blood stopped its thunderous pumping. She felt calm in a way, more composed than she had ever felt on Nassau. Maybe in her life. It was odd, more than bizarre, she had no idea what her next step would be. Vane was finished, and subsequently her to. But she found herself leaning forward anyway, whispering to the back of Vane, just loud enough for him to hear. Clara needed to know one thing, just one. And then well, then she thought she knew what she was going to do, but could she be able to do it? Take Max's rightful justice from her in one swoop?

"Did you know this was happening? Did you do this?"

Vanes head turned just a fraction, just enough for one of his eyes to lock onto hers. And in that second, she saw his guard down, saw something so deep, so... complex that she almost took her question back. Almost.

"Not all this. She was supposed to be off this island tonight. She was meant to be far away from here. Obviously something, or someone fucked up."

Clara pulled away from him, turning her gaze away at the same time he faced forward again. Claras hand reached her other one, running her fingers over the bandage still encasing her hand. Her cut was healed enough for to have long gotten ridden of the soiled cotton and gauze. But those weren't for her cut anymore, those were for her little secret. Her part of the schedule.

Eleanor had nearly made a full circle in her rantings when she saw Flint, stalled, and smirked. That did not bode well. She turned back to Vane, looking triumphant and her words were hissed when she spoke, sharp like knifes through her twisted lips.

"Unless... Unless you elect a new Captain. You elect Flint, you follow Flint. You can either stay under a beggar, or except this and join Flints crew."

That was Claras suspicions confirmed. Silver had given over the schedule to Flint. Back in mister Noonans, Eleanor had said she needed to speak to Flint about something important, Clara now knew that would have been about the schedule, about the giant treasury ship they were after, Eleanor was in on it too.

Claras fingers tightened on her bandaged hand. If she did this, she damned Silver, she damned any form of retribution for Max, and she would damn herself in Flints eyes. The latter chafed a lot more than she realized, even the idea of it made her cringe. They were now on the opposite ends of a chessboard. What she did next, would dictate what place, whose side she was on. Taking Vanes hand was not her making the choice, not really, here on this beach, this was were she would make her choice. Her or them. If Vane went, for he would if Eleanor got her way, she would never get another offer like his. Clara knew this.

Silver, that brilliant, two faced mad man, had fucked her over back at the rocks. He went to go on to sell without her. Didn't give her a second thought, even when she was the one in the firing line, even after she had gone into Maxs room to keep him safe and away from eyes.

Max was leaving anyway. The woman didn't know her, Clara didn't know Max. Why should Clara care about fucking her over? But that was the thing, no one, no matter what they had done, what kind of person they were, they never deserved to get raped. And they deserved atonement for it. But was it Claras place to give that, even if it was detriment to her own survival?

No it wasn't. But she could wing this, if she spoke the right words, if she could borrow Silvers tongue, Clara could come out on top. Get Max the justice she derserved. She just had to play it carefully. Because really, Eleanor wasn't offering Max any justice at all, she was offering the men who had done this to her another chance straight off the bat, no concequences. All for the chance to go for the gold, it was always the gold.

So she had whittled it down, Clara or Flint. The man who was the tornado that had shambled her reality and life. Could she face him, knowing what she was going to do? She was outing him, outing his lies. Because Vane had said that his crew was already celebrating the prize they hadn't won yet, they believed that Flint had the schedule. That was why it was a mad dash for Silver, why Eleanor wanted more people for Flints crew, another ship to boost their chances of success.

But Flint would live, he would still be in on this hunt for shiny metal. Vane... The same could not be said for him. Someone would try and kill him, or he would waste away on this island. Clara wanted no part in his death, none what-so-ever. Coming to her decision, she reached up, pulled the hat off her head and dropped in to the sand at her feet, watching idly as it crashed to the floor, kicking up small plumes of sand.

Her, Clara chose herself. Rackham, and every other pirate in Eleanors vicinity was distracted between themselves, their own decisions and choices, to pull Clara back from the opening. Eleanor was the first to look at her, but when Clara started speaking, every single soul present quieted, watching aptly as Clara faced off against a raging Eleanor Guthrie.

"Or we could tell you to fuck off. We could have part of that prize you and Flint are drooling over and still keep Captain Vane as Captain! Who the hell do you think you are?"

Eleanor looked disbelieving at her, then laughed, only angering Clara further. This woman, they were never going to be the best of friends, but if she kept on laughing at her like this, without Clara having chance to explain, Clara would take that club from her and cause the blonde permanent brain damage. Eleanor prowled forward, Vane went to grab Clara, but Clara stepped away. She wasn't done, she was far from done. She would no longer play Flints game, no longer play Silvers or Vanes. And Eleanor was going to have a shock if she thought Clara would follow her tune either. No, now it was time for these people to dance to the strings she pulled. Her time, her game.

"I'm the one who has final say, and I say you're all finished. Being Flints daughter is only getting you so far princess, back off while you still can. Why would anyone listen to you? Why the fuck would I listen to you?"

If Clara housed any doubt at all about what she was doing, it was evaporated now. What did this woman now about her? Eleanor looked like she grew up with money, you could tell by the way she spoke, her dialect and the way she held herself. She had never starved, never had to scrape by, never had to face someone head on when it was abundantly clear you were outmatched, maybe even owned servants, even the odd slave. Clara even betted this whole thing, her industry, was handed to her by her father. She would even go as far as saying she had been protected her whole life from full repercussions of the upset pirates by her fathers name. By Vanes name if earliers show was anything to go on.

Clara got nothing, she fought for everything she had in life, even fought for her life. It brought Clara a sick sense of joy in way, to be the first one to show the blonde up for her fool hardy ness, her own ego, to put her in her place. Eleanor frowned hard when a Cheshire grin spread across Claras cheeks instead of her scampering off like the Blonde obviously wanted. Everyone was silent, but Clara could only focus on Eleanor as she stood in front of Clara. The only problem was balancing on Silver. Did he tell Clara the truth a week ago, when he said he didn't remember that part of the schedule? It didn't matter, she was already in too deep, she couldn't back out now.

"One simple reason. You are a liar. Flint, you, Silver, you're all liars. They've been lying to all of you! They don't have the full fucking schedule! They have no hopes of catching that treasury ship!"

Eleanors mask of self riotousness slipped and Clara caught the worry, the surprise, the dread before the blonde managed to strap her mask back on. But it was enough for Clara. She was right, Silver had not told them about the missing piece, or he did, but they went along with this half assed plan anyway. And seen as Eleanor, back in Vanes tent, hadn't jumped on her for the schedule, they didn't know she was the one who had the missing piece, or how she could have known about it.

"Yes we do-"

Clara snapped, stormed over to a bystander who was holding a torch, snatched it from him, stormed back to the middle of the ring of people, viciously ripped her bandages off, snapped up the piece of paper she had hidden there, and held it up for the people to see.

"NO YOU DON'T! You good people want to know how I know? Because I have a part of it, the missing piece, a very large, very important missing piece. You, Flint, you ain't getting anywhere near that gold if I don't hand this over. And if you... Princess, don't back the fuck off from ME, I'll burn it."

Clara pulled the piece of paper down and held it dangerously close to the torch. She was being honest when she said she would burn it, but it was also a ploy, a tactic to see if this piece was really as important as she was trying to sell it for. And it was, for Eleanor scrambled forward, reaching for it, but was blocked off by Gareth of all people. And soon, Clara found herself surrounded by the Ranger crew, protected by them, or more truthfully, the schedule was being protected by them. Even Vane made his way over to her. At the sight, Eleanor grew even more red in the face, But Clara carried on her demands, knowing now she had some ground to stand on.

"Don't worry. I'll hand it over. IF! If you meet my... negotiations. Number one, Vane stays Captain. The ranger, we get in on this deal, you obviously need the man power to get this job done or you wouldn't have used Maxs situation for your shitty ploy and own agenda. But most importantly, you go back to your little throne and keep your goddamned nose out of our business again, unless we are selling to you. That's the deal, or this thing is going up in ashes right now and no ones getting any gold."

"I Don't give a fuc-"

Eleanor was yanked back by Flint, and Clara had to will herself not to look at him, not to see what she thought would be playing out on his face. Clara saw him lean in, whisper to Eleanors ear. And when he was done, he was stepping back and Eleanor was speaking to her through clenched teeth.

"Deal. Meet Captain Flint and I back in my office in an hour. We'll talk details then."

That must have physically pained her to say, because she was charging away before the last word was out. But Clara made the mistake of looking at Flint, seeing the murky hints of betrayal flickering in his eyes like a candle stuck in the wind. But then he was gone too, his crew following him. After seeing that look on Flints face, Clara couldn't bring herself to check the crowd for Silver. No, one haunting face was enough for today. Even though she wasn't sure why Silvers face would haunt her, at least she had the excuse of Flint being biologically being related to her. There was no connection to Silver, none. His feelings, his opinions didn't matter to Clara.

Once the other men, Flints crew was gone, the Rangers ship mates blew up in a roar of laughter and cheers. But they felt hollow to Clara, echoes of things that should bleep on her emotional radar but didn't. A warm hand patted her on the back, and Clara looked up to see a smirking Vane. He chuckled and glanced around himself before settling back in on her.

"That Clara, that is how you win a crew over."

He reached out for the paper, but Clara waved the torch she was still holding closer to the paper, almost singeing the edge of the paper by the close proximity. Rackham, who was in the crowd near her, ushered the others away with orders of getting more drink and food, obviously clocking on to the dispute about to erupt between the newest crew member and their Captain and not wanting them to witness it. They left easily enough, still high on watching Eleanors quick retreat and now being in on the Urca de lima prize. As soon as they were far enough away, Clara spoke.

"Oh no. Don't think I did all this for you. I can, and will, still destroy this paper. Eleanor, Flint, they wont be the only ones meeting me halfway tonight."

"What do you want?"

At least she could count of Vane for that, for getting straight to the point instead of dancing around the bush.

"I'm a full member of your crew now, no more glorified prisoner, no more hiding away."

Vane nodded, and went to speak, but Clara wasn't done, far from it. Rackham at this point had come back from ushering the people away, Anne Bonny by his side. Clara backed away from them a little, she refused to be cornered by them. Looking down, she took in the crumpled and sobbing form of Max, and Claras resolve solidified.

"I want every single person who had a hand in this, in what happened to Max, the ones who raped... Every single one of them, I want them dead. I want their fucking blood soaking into the sand beneath my feet before I even step foot near Guthries, or this paper goes up in flames."

Rackham huffed, flung his arms out widely in annoyance.

"That is ridiculous, we can't possibly kill off ten of our own men. They-"

"Done."

Rackham turned to Vane, and Clara couldn't begrudge him his surprise. Clara had thought it would take more to get what she wanted done. Vane turned to Anne, who was partially turned away from the many lights littering around this group of tents.

"You know what to do. Take Rackham with you for back up. I better not see a single one of their faces again. They can be easily replaced."

Anne didn't speak, didn't argue, simply nodded and dragged Rackham off with her. And with a bit of reluctance, Rackham finally gave in and willingly followed Anne. Slowly she pulled the paper away from the spluttering torch fire, bent down and stuck the torch in the sand next to her. Clara went to grab Max off the floor, but the woman flinched from her touch, heaved herself up and was gone into the night before Clara could utter a word.

Then it was just Vane and Clara. He started towards the way they came, back to his tent, stopped when he noticed Clara wasn't following. Looking at her from over his shoulder, he jerked his head in the signal to follow. Claras feet were sluggish when she began moving, she was always so tired lately. When she caught up with him, they both set off through the labyrinth of tents, Vane breaking the silence as they walked through the night.

"You look like you could use some rum. Luckily I have plenty of it. Welcome to the Ranger Clara Flint."

* * *

 **NEXT CHAPTER:** Silver, Flint, Eleanor, Rackham, Vane and Clara all in one room... That just spells trouble...

 **CHAPTER NOTES-** Some of you may not like this turn, but I had this planned since the beginning. Don't worry, **Flint** and Clara will have a bonding time... At some point in the future. It just seemed too early, for Clara especially, to have that moment take place, but I promise, it will come.

Now, some of you are going to HATE me for how I've written **Eleanor**. But my character Clara and Eleanor are just too different to have any middle ground. And look at it this way, this story is written from Claras point of view, so her feelings are going to tinge the events that take place, that's just how life is, percpective and all that jazz. And to be perfectly honest, Eleanor was never one of my favourite characters, she's actually down there with Defrasne, and that's saying something.

As for **Anne** and **Max** , I love these characters, I really do. So as little of them there are at this point in the story, expect more of them in the future.

If you guys have watched season 3, or are in the process of watching it like me, then this story is going to giantly depart from that. For one thing, there will be no **Madi** in this story, however the island queen? she MAY make an appearance, cause that woman is a true boss. I'm sorry, but that is just how it is. I find Madi's character extremely dull. And as you can tell, I'm already **veering off from canon with this chapter majorly,** by not letting Vane loose his ship. Which will become important in later chapters and Claras whole arc. But this is fanfiction, and personally, I just cant stand stories that are practically a re-telling of the show. Especially when an OC is involved, because if you are adding a character to the mix, they're going to change things.

 **AN-** I am so sorry for the extremely long wait, I fell ill with the flu and low and behold, the laptop thought it would be a good time to crash too. I hope I didn't keep you guys waiting too long, and the update was worth the wait. This chapter was originally two chapters, but I just couldn't find a good place to leave the first one off, so I morphed the two together, once again if long chapters aren't your thing, I'm sorry. I honestly do try and keep things in a tight knit format, but I just get carried away with this story sometimes.

 **THANKYOU** to all the reviewers, your guys words are better than any Urca gold.

I hope you all enjoyed this chapter, and will enjoy the next just as much. And as always, if you have a spare minute, please drop a review! Until next time- **GoWithTheFlo20**


	12. Pathways, Agenda's, Schemes

Clara stood with her hands braced on the railing of the upstairs platform of Guthrie's, her fingers tapping away on the polished wood to an unsung tune. Vane and Rackham were seated behind her, drinking from tankards and the odd conversation blooming up here and there. Clara was too distracted by what was going to happen in Eleanor's office to join in, what was going to happen during the hunt for the Urca and what will take place after the dust had settled, to even drink her own tankard that was left discarded on the table behind her.

For one, this would be the first time she would have to be in the same room as Flint, will have to talk to him since she had shown her alliance. And two, Eleanor would be in there and Clara knew with the stunt she had pulled, the blonde would be out for blood. Her blood. Pushing away the what ifs and the imaginary conversations she could picture going on in that room downstairs, she turned around to Vane and Rackham, focusing her mind on the whole point of this meeting.

"After everything is said and done, given everything goes the way it should, where is the gold going to go?"

Pushing off from the banister, Clara made her way to the table, sitting in the empty seat on the opposite side of Vane and Rackham. Picking up her own untouched tankard and taking a deep gulp, cringing at the burn to her tongue and throat, Clara focused in on Vane and Rackham. The question may not have been the one she was most worried about, Flint and Eleanor taking first and second place, but she needed something to focus on, to plan out to keep herself balanced and not go running for the hills. Using the back of his hand to wipe away the trickle of rum from his moustache, Rackham leaned closer to Clara, voice conspicuously low as he answered her question.

"It will most likely be placed in the fort under guard. It's the safest place in Nassau and easily defended in the inevitable case of some other pirate trying his luck to get his hands on it. No doubt Flint and Guthrie have already come up with this and push for the gold to be seated there. I saw Flint's right-hand man, what's his name?... Gates? Well, he's been having a few friendly chats with Hornigold over the last week. And who owns the fort? Hornigold."

Clara looked up from staring into her amber drink with wide eyes, eyebrows raising comically high as she took in Rackham after he said one name. Hornigold. Out of all the pirates that littered this damned island, even the seven sea's, it had to be the one she had already heard of. The one who was already spying on Vane's crew and goings on. Of course, with her luck this year, it would be that man. Couldn't she catch a fucking break?

"Hornigold? You're handing the gold over to Hornigold to look after?"

Vane scooped up his tankard and took a big drink, the cup thumping loudly on the wooden table as he slammed it back down, the drink sloshing up the side and spilling onto the table at his careless manoeuvre. Vane didn't seem to care about his loss of drink, seen as he hadn't taken his eyes off her since she had looked up from her own rum. Although Rackham hadn't clocked on to Clara's edgy reaction to the name, the ever perceptive Vane had, and subsequently locked onto Clara and her wording.

"Why do you look so skittish at the name?"

Now it was Clara's turn to take a rather deep gulp of her drink, hoping the burning liquid would give her strength, and quiet down the voices screaming in the back of her mind that she was a bloody idiot for getting involved with this storm in the first place. But it was already done, written in stone, in the past. She had done what she had done, joined a crew, sentenced ten rapists to death, betrayed Flint and now she would live with it, she would deal with what she had to deal with to see another sunrise. Good or not, she was a part of Vane's crew now, her own agenda's and ambitions laid eerily similar to his and to get to the goal at the end of the dangerous road they were on, to the glittering Urca, she would have to come clean about what she had spied from Vane's tent. Well, come clean about the things that concerned her and the moment. She didn't need to give away all her secrets quiet yet.

"I'm 'skittish' because placing our share of the gold with Hornigold of all people should be the last thing we should ever do. We won't see it again if we do that."

No, because Hornigold was already in league with Guthrie and Flint. And while Clara couldn't see Flint going back on his word of letting them in on the chase, even after her betrayal, Eleanor was a different roll of the dice. This could be why the blonde had agreed so readily in the first place, when Clara had shown her up in front of two crews, with only a few words from Flint to ease the sting, having this all planned out. However, the blonde obviously hadn't fractured in that Clara might know about Hornigold's investment in spying on Vane, and therefore not think Clara could plan for it.

She had to give it to Eleanor, the woman was a slippery fucker indeed. In retrospect, in the light of what happened hours prior, Clara wouldn't be surprised if Hornigold wasn't the main problem here, instead working for someone else, passing the information along. And who would want to know about Vane's activities? Eleanor or Flint. And who was it that wanted Vane de-captained to keep the numbers and shares of gold down? Eleanor.

Clara sighed heavily and reached up to rub a hand over her forehead, she was getting a headache, a mean snarling bitch of one. She was tired. She was hungry. All this planning, all this trying to out think another person she didn't truly know, all this second-guessing and scheming was taking its toll on her.

Right now, if someone asked her were up and down was, she wasn't sure she would be able to tell them conclusively. Blinking wearily, Clara pushed everything back and drank from her tankard once more. She had bigger fish to fry. Looking at Vane dead on, she took in the small frown marring between his brows, so small you wouldn't be able to tell unless you really looked for it.

"Why?"

"I told you, back in that tent, you should watch your crew more closely. The things I've seen going on... There's this man on the Ranger, don't know his name, but he's been passing information out to another man, all about you Vane, and your ship. I overheard their conversations, the men, they were doing this for a 'Hornigold'. They brought his name up often enough... Idiots."

Vane pushed his drink that was laying idly on the table further towards the edge, making room for his elbows as he leaned in closer. Rackham almost mirroring the harsh captain's posture as they both rounded on her. Clara refused to back away even an inch, hardly put out by the gleam in their eyes. She refused to show weakness, refused to back down, refused to be intimidated. Especially by the people who were meant to be her own crew. She knew why they were pissed, she too would be in their shoes.

Clara could have told them this a week earlier, but they had to see it from her point of view too. They may be pirates, this whole island ran off illegal selling and shady alleyway brokered deals, stolen gold and goods, but Clara was smart enough to realize the main currency that kept Nassau going strong. Knowledge and secrets. And now that she had the footing to stand on, she had an idea of the role and place she would be staying and playing in, she was determined to be the richest of them all in this one aspect. She would douse herself in whispered conspiracies and little facts.

That's how she would survive, how she would thrive here, by knowing the most. She wasn't the best fighter, she wasn't the best sailor, she wasn't the most frightening figure to behold, but she was smart and sneaky when she wanted to be. She was a thinker, fast on her feet, they were her strong points, those were the attributes she would sharpen like a knife's blade until they became as deadly as Vane's strength, as Flint's reputation, as John Silver's tongue. She would survive, she would live. They... Vane, Flint, Guthrie, Silver, Max, everybody on this island, hadn't seen the best of her but they would in time. She promised herself that. She promised them that too. So, despite the glares, Vane's deep rough voice breaking the silence, Clara didn't shrink away. She stood proudly under it all.

"What did he look like?"

Clara fiddled with the worn handle of her drink, trying to bring up a clear picture of the man she had seen, the one on the Ranger's crew. Describing the other man would be useless, seen as he was hooded in a thick and heavy cloak every time the two met. Each time she had seen him, both the Ranger crew mate and the mysterious hooded figure, it was night time, but she thought she had seen enough to give an alright description. At least one that would lead to him being pointed out from the crowd if it came down to it.

"Pox marked, has a scar running down and along the cleft of his jaw. Gnarly looking thing. Short... Black hair..."

Vane huffed and slouched back into his seat, running a rough labour calloused hand down his face, squaring Clara with a look that burned hotter than the sun. But it wasn't anger, wasn't regret or disappointment, just something... Other. Something she couldn't read fully. Maybe he was annoyed by her lack of remorse or coyness at her admission of her keeping secrets from them, maybe he just had indigestion. Who know's when it came to Vane? He was like a riddle made to lead you to another riddle to figure out. A stony labyrinth in human form. God only know's what ran through his head at that very moment, her bloody death at his hands most likely. Then, he was facing Rackham without a sidewards glance her way.

"James. He's one of the newer ones we let in. Fuck. Why are you only now telling me this?"

Clara glared fiercely into Vane's own raging eyes, snarling her lip up before she could force it back down and over her teeth. Wasn't the answer obvious? God dammit, Vane himself had kept things from her, pretending she was a crew mate for a week before she finally managed to wiggle her way into the Rangers ranks by her own planning and actions. She highly doubted she knew all the pieces to the Vane puzzle as it was now, in fact, she was sure she only had a corner piece.

But this gave her a glimpse into his mind as well, something infinitely useful. It seems, despite everything,he knew as little of her core character, her own mind's workings, as she did about him. They were actually on even footing in this regard. For some inexplicable reason, that sent a bolt of thrill through her.

"Because I'm only now a member of your crew. And if this falls through, you aren't the only one who will go down. I'm the one who rattled your crew's cage with the promise of uncountable gold and rich's. If this goes tits up your crew will flay me. And if we put our share of gold within reach of Hornigold, especially if he's been cozying up to Guthrie, then we may as well give your crew the knives to slit our throats with now and save time."

Rackham sighed deeply, reaching up to idly twist and play with the side of his moustache, his other hand mindlessly tapping away on the side of his wooden cup. Both he and Vane seemed to churn her words over, coming to the same conclusion she had. One slip on this task, of hunting down the Urca and actually getting the gold, and there would be three new graves dug on Nassau's beach. The problem was, they had Hornigold and Guthrie purposefully trying to trip them. And Flint? Flint was a big huge question mark in this whole thing. None of them, especially Clara, knew or could guess where he would fall, what his agenda was, what his actions would be.

"She's right Vane. He's obviously been sniffing around for some time, trying to spot a weakness on you. What better way to get that weakness, to prove you invalid, then for the gold we will lose men over, battle for, to be taken right from under our noses."

And that was the big catch of being captain, Clara realized with startling clarity. One hint of a soft spot, one stutter in your stride, and another captain would take you out without a blink of an eye. If that did come to pass, if they did lose the gold after bringing it back, the crew of the Ranger would be beyond pissed, and who would they blame? Vane. The captain who wasn't even competent enough to keep the gold even when it was in his grasp. Without a shadow of a doubt, she and Rackham would take the fall too. Rackham for being Vane's right-hand man, Clara because she was the one to give them the schedule and get them riled up about the gold.

Then again, it wasn't only cut-throat captains and crews they had to worry about, Vane's reputation and own bloodthirsty nature should hold most of them off. It was the shadow pulling Hornigold's strings and the not so happy woman they were going to meet any moment she and Flint walked through the door.

"Not only that, but me and Vane are both in Guthrie's line of fire. She may not strike back now, or before we get the gold, but I've shown her up. You too Vane by still being captain when she wants you not to be, well, ordered you to be banned in front of half of Nassau's population. It shows people that her word isn't law. She's going to want repayment for that. She's obviously set on Flint being her only partner in this giant hunt, fewer shares being passed out that way is my guess. If they put our share of gold in that fort, one word from her and it's back to her original plan. The entire gold-"

Then Rackham cut her off, finishing her conclusion perfectly, in better words than she ever could. But before he could finish, Vane cut him off, summing everything up in four words. Simple, honest, brutal and poignant. Just like the man who spoke them.

"And us back where we started. The men, if they don't get a single gold coin from this, your banishment from Nassau will still happen, mayhap even leading to your death. In one fell swoop, she'll have everything she wanted from the very beginning. Her word back to being gospel, you gone, Clara gone for showing her up, the Ranger crew disbanded and-"

"She get's revenge. Shit."

Now that they were all on the same page, seeing things from the same angle she was, Clara took another drink from the strong rum to bolster her courage, temper her emotions, shaking her head slightly when the rum trailed a fiery path to her gut and leaned onto the table by her elbows, glancing between both Rackham and Vane as she spoke. Even though she couldn't see herself, she knew she must have looked half mad. Her hair wild, sunburnt, with a feverish glint in her eye that could be misconstrued as delirium. When in all honesty, as dark as it was to admit, she was enjoying herself. The thrill, the self-satisfaction of out thinking someone who didn't even know you were onto their game was like a drug. One Clara could see herself getting addicted to.

For that was the difference between them, her and everyone on this island. They lived in the moment, Clara played with the future. Her mind, since running away from Flint, which felt like a lifetime ago, was always thinking about months away instead of tomorrow, making up paths to get to the goal she imagined. And there was one path, one shiny golden road, she wanted to travel down more than anything. But that would have to be ironed out, have to be meticulously set up if she would ever get to the glorious end of it. Now was not the time for that pathway. Now she had to deal with this mess instead of creating another one.

"My feelings exactly. So we need to find somewhere else to hide the gold in."

Rackham's lips puckered slightly as he thought, beginning to ramble idea's to both Vane and Clara.

"There's some hidden caves inland. Over the other side of-"

"No."

Rackham whirled on her, staring incredulously as she broke over his stream of talk before he could finish even his first idea.

"And why would that be a no?"

It hit her like a bull to the chest, the realization of something they had all overlooked, even herself up until this point. The Urca. Of course getting the gold would be hard, people would die in this endeavour. From what Vane had told her on their way here, the treasury ship originating from Spain was the biggest in the new and old world, had numerous cannon's and trained crew to protect it. But that wasn't going to be the hardest part, neither was Guthrie or hiding the gold if they got it. No.

"Because there's one thing no one has thought of. Not Flint, not Guthrie, not Vane, not You and not me until now..."

Rackham huffed, swiping his hat off his head, he ran a hand through his slicked back hair as he rose one eyebrow at her, his tone patronizing.

"Oh, and of course you have-"

"Yes, I have! We are about to steal from a treasury ship. A fucking treasury ship. Treasury ships, correct me if I'm wrong, but don't they belong to the country? The royals of said country?"

When no one answered her, Clara carried on, growing worried as the realization sank home fully. This was a lot more dangerous then she had first believed, and even back then, she knew she could die on this. Now she wasn't so sure she was going to live through it. What had she dug herself into this time? Would she be able to climb out of this one or be buried under it all?

"A bloody country. And just like Guthrie, they will not only want the gold back but it's weight in blood too. I don't know if you or your men have been away from England for so long you've forgotten, but we've only just gotten out of war with Spain, the very same country we're going to steal from. They can't and won't allow themselves to loose face right now, especially to English originating pirates of all things!"

Clara's escalating worry was smashed down when anger took up its mantle after Vane simple smirked at her rant. Folding his arms over his chest, he kicked back in his chair, balancing on one leg as he continued to grin at her. Maybe she should have just left it alone, let the Spaniards get their hands on Vane, Flint and walk away, dusting her hands off them all. But fact and logic won out. She had nowhere to go, no one to turn to, and if they went down, she would too, unfortunately.

Maybe she even deserved to, after everything she had done. She had been on Nassau, for what? Nearly a month, a little bit more? And what had she to show for it? Eleven... Eleven dead and rotting bodies left in her wake. The cook, the rapists, who would be next? The worse part? Now, sitting at this table, scheming with Vane and Rackham in hushed voices, she didn't feel guilty about it. Not one iota. She was alive and they were dead, finished. The real concern for her, the one that tickled the base of her skull was what she would do if someone else stepped in her way. Would the body count rise even higher before the year was up? How high could it climb from just one girl?

"They would have to catch us first."

Of bloody course, she should have seen Vane's reply coming from a mile off. Arrogant fuck. Did he not see the graves they were digging for themselves? Her voice was dangerously low when she did speak, haunted by her own thoughts, words pressed through tightly grounded teeth, barely above anything but a snarl.

"Yes, because Nassau is so well camouflaged. Tell me, if we sail under your's and Flint's flag, because we will won't we? You two will want the recognition of taking down the hardest ship of our time... When we take the prize, how many people know that your's and Flint's base is Nassau? Too many to stay here safely, or ignorantly expecting the Spanish not to follow."

Thankfully, before Clara could blow a casket, Rackham spoke up, for once looking sombre and seemingly looking at Clara through new eyes, as if truly seeing her for the first time, as if finally clocking on she did speak some sense and not mindless babble. Could he see the ghosts of the dead shadowing her eyes too?

"Oddly enough, I can see Clara's point. If we store the gold here, this will be the first place they will look. But that still doesn't solve the problem at hand. If we get the gold, we need to find an island or hidden place as soon as possible. Otherwise, while we search for a place to hide it, they will catch us out in open sea before we can dock. An outcome I think is best we avoid as much as we can."

Yet again, Clara was hit with another realization. Flint. Flint would put his gold in the fort even if they didn't and if the Spanish did come, which Clara was willing to bet was a big fat yes, then he would be the one to face the brunt of the oncoming storm. Clara didn't care for Guthrie or her share, she could put it in the fort for all she wanted and face Spain's wrath, Clara couldn't care less. But could she leave Flint to that same end, especially when she could divert him from it? No, she couldn't. Somehow, some way, she would need to get word to Flint, if he hadn't already thought of the same outcome she has, and warn him to hide his share.

How? She had no clue, having Vane watch her, being a part of the Ranger, would hinder her movement, but she had to get word to him somehow. Silver's face flashed to the forefront of her mind, but how was she going to get word to him either? Would he even listen after she had called him and Flint a liar back on the beach an hour ago? Would any of them listen after the stunt she pulled? Fucking hell. Clara pushed it all back. First, she needed to focus on this and what they would do with their share, then she would think about how she was going to handle this. Prioritize and organize.

That was the only way she was going to stop this headache from turning into a full-blown migraine. Right now though, all she wanted to do was march out of this pub and never glance back. it was just another urge she would have to repress. Vane's voice broke her out of her inner musings.

"Then we find the place first before we set sail for the Urca."

Clara lifted her tankard and tried to drink, only to find no drink left, she must have drunk it all while they were talking. No wonder there were so many drunk pirates, it was the only way to deal with this load of shit. Dropping her empty mug onto the table with a thwack, Clara reached over and snatched up Vane's, downing what was left of his, almost chuckling at the scowl he thrown her way. She needed it more than him, he was used to this sort of thing, she wasn't and therefore deserved the liquid calm more than he did. Calming down, Clara spoke, her eyes focused on Vane's.

"You two are still not getting it. Flint, Guthrie, they won't let us split the gold. If we split it, then they have no hopes of getting the share back. We may be in on this, but not in their eyes. The only reason, I'm guessing, that they even let us join in is to help do the grunt work, to add fire-power for taking on the Urca and transporting it back. When it comes to actually taking our share... Well, I don't think they're expecting it to get that far."

No, Clara really couldn't see Eleanor or Flint readily agreeing to them placing their share somewhere else, especially Eleanor, if all of Clara's guesses were right. And if they did bring up the topic of splitting it, even making it seem like it was an act to ward off any would-be stealer's, Eleanor would refuse downright, it went against her whole scheme. Vane frowned, more pronounced this time, reached over and nabbed Rackham's drink, downing it in one go. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his fingers messing with one of his various necklace's, Vane began to plot in actual earnest, instead of snide and sarcastic remarks.

"The amount of gold will be too heavy for one ship alone. Flint will have to place some, if not half, on my ship. If they aren't going to willingly share it with us, if you two are right, we will just have to take it. Once it's aboard, instead of following them back like they will expect us to, halfway through the journey we take off and get our share of gold to the place we've found first. Play along until its time to fuck them off."

Rackham gave a mindless nod as he waved down a busty waitress, ordering three more drinks with the simple action of holding three fingers up. Once the raven-haired waitress had collected their empty cups on her stained platter and had safely left hearing range, Rackham began to speak.

"Flint will likely open fire on us, and it will come down to a battle of the fastest ship, but it's the best course of action we should take I believe."

But that didn't stop the main threat, Clara thought. The local's of Nassau would gossip, Clara had a feeling whisper's and rumours spread like wildfire here. And if the Spanish did come, did hear about them taking part of the hiest of the Urca, then they would know they had taken the gold somewhere else and simply track the Ranger down and get their hands on the crew for the whereabouts. All ending in the same outcome as they were trying to avoid. So how were they meant to go about this?

Clara grimaced, trying to slow down her whirling thoughts. They needed the Spanish to believe they had put the gold in the fort, but the locals would out the truth as soon as questions were started to be asked. Unless... Unless. Yes, Clara thought she may have thought of the solution, without no exchange of cannon fire between the Walrus or the Ranger.

"Still one more problem, the Spanish finding out. As you've said, we don't hide it well, or quick enough, we're going to go down, this time by a countries naval force. That sound's more dangerous to me than one pirate ship, despite who it's captain is."

Their drinks came back with a cheeky smile and wink from the waitress to Vane, all three sitting at the table, taking a hefty drink when the waitress scuttled off. Once alone again, Vane was the one to speak up.

"And what would you say we do about that? The Spanish will come either way."

Ripping her eyes away from Vane's stormy ones, Clara glanced down into her drink, swirling the liquid around in circles, reminiscent of her mind and thoughts. What she was going to propose to Vane and Rackham wasn't the best of plans, far from it, so many things could go wrong, but it was the best she could think of, especially with the clock ticking down until they met up with Flint and Guthrie. They needed at least a foundation of a plan before they entered that yellow room, greeted the wolves with glistening teeth. The question was would Vane or Rackham see the merits of her little on the spot scheme?

"Yes but later is a hell of a lot better than sooner in my books. It gives us more time to squirrel our share away and boost up for the oncoming shit storm. What I'm saying, what I think we should do, is agree to put our gold in the fort, we do follow Flint back and we actually dock in Nassau's port..."

Rackham sighed heavily, rolled his neck and rubbed at his eyes. Vane didn't look any better, having plucked up his drink only seconds prior to putting it down and proceeded to gulped the rum down. Clara didn't blame them, even to her they were talking and walking in circles, an end to this conversation over the horizon and never coming. But there was an end, Clara just had to make them see it.

"The whole point of this lovely and tantalizing conversation Clara was you were saying how much of a bad idea just that was."

Turning away from her cup, Clara looked up at Rackham as his smooth voice floated to her. Trying to gather her wits, place the right words in the right place's, Clara began to try and convince them of why this would be the best course of action. How really, with their shitty lot and multiple people trying to fuck them over, their only valuable option.

"I'm not saying we should fucking stay here. We follow Flint back and we dock. If we arrive back in Nassau during daylight hours, then we wait until night-time rolls around once more. We will be transferring the gold over to the fort once night has fallen won't we? Less suspicious eye's watching that way right?"

"Yes."

With Rackham's bewildered affirmative, Clara carried on in a whispered tone, words growing closer together in speed the longer she carried on, trying to get everything out as soon as possible before she forgot a part or fact.

"Good, then we dock in Nassau after we take down the Urca, the pirates, Hornigold and local's will see us dock and gossip about it. Then when night falls, before we are meant to move everything over to the fort, we take off in the dead of the night. That way people will see us dock, know we've been out with Flint and assume we put our share of gold in the fort like Eleanor... And Flint have. Flint and Eleanor won't say shit, they've proven that when they didn't tell the Walrus crew about the missing part of the schedule, they'll loose face if they do spill it to someone. When all is quiet, before Flint starts moving the gold over, we set sail and take it to the location we've spotted before we set out for the Urca."

Vane ran his eyes up and down Clara, taking her in when she had finished speaking in a rushed breath, head cocked slightly to the side. Rackham however, laughed heartily, nearly spilling his drink over the table, eye's twinkling merrily. Clara didn't know whether this was a good sign or a bad one. She prayed it was the former.

"Haha! And all the while, ours is safely away and out of reach, with only a select few of us knowing its location. The Spaniards, if they do come, will zone in on the fort, believing it is placed there too, with the gossip of the local's to back up that assumption, and have no idea we have a large chunk hidden away. And by the time, and if, they do get it back, ours will be spent or changed for easier moved products... With no way for them to be tracked."

Realizing that it was a good reaction, from at least Rackham anyhow, Clara broke out into a dimpled and large grin, tipping the edge of her cup in salute to an equally smiling Rackham.

"Bingo."

Then Rackham's grin levelled out to a flat line, the twinkle of enjoyment in his eyes taking a sharp edge, echoing the kind of mind behind it perfectly, as he looked hard at Clara, almost so hard she thought he was trying to see through her. The change and drop in atmosphere was almost a shock to her system, making her own smile falter and splinter at the edges. His next sentence, said in a flowing and clear dialect was precise and to the point, the words linking together in a smooth rhythm, but that didn't stop Clara from feeling confused at his words.

"You know, when Vane offered you a place among us, I thought he had gone bloody insane. However, now? Now I see it... What about James, Charles?"

The two most unlikely pirates, Rackham with his flamboyant style and literary speech of a well versed scholar and Clara, dressed in men's clothes three sizes too big making her look younger than her already young age, barely standing five foot three, broke eye contact as Rackham turned in his seat to face Vane, moving onto the next important topic of conversation that needed addressing. Vane did not pause, did not need to think as he answered Rackham's question before he had fully finished.

"Leave him."

Both Rackham and Clara were shocked at his easy manner and careless wave of his hand as if brushing away the inquiry. Clara had not expected this reaction, having thought he would call for the man's head, then again, she really needed to start to remember not to try and guess Vane's reaction, he always did the opposite of what she thought he would do. Vane was nothing short of the wild card in their already odd deck. However, it was Rackham that voiced his shock.

"What? He's been spying on you Charles, surely-"

"Yes, and as Clara has said, he's shit at it. Better a lazy spy we know is spying than a good one we can't point out. We can also feed Hornigold what WE want him to know, be it putting the gold in the fort or anything else that might pop its head up. I have no doubt this wasn't just Hornigold's big plan, he's the fucking puppet. No, someone's pulling his strings. And until that bastard shows its face, then we carry on as normal, or as Hornigold expects us to act."

Then silence fell around them, enshrouding them thickly. Clara didn't like it one bit. Since her short time in Nassau, she hadn't realized until now, she wasn't graced with a moment of silence when she was in company of someone. Either she was the one asking questions, or they were. Sitting at a table with two other people, drinking, it didn't seem right to keep quiet, didn't feel comfortable. As she felt twitchy, about ready to jump up and do something, anything, she found her tongue moving before she could stop it, latching onto the first thing her brain had conjured up.

"So, who is going to bring up the fort in there?"

Vane leaned onto the table, arms folded and braced against the knotted wooden planks. Only as his hair fell from behind his back, cascading around his face, did Clara notice how close the two were, she too having leaned into the table at some point she could not remember. So close, Clara could tell Vane's eyes weren't simply blue, but had a shocking mercury ring around the pupil, as if the deep blue melted into hardy metal at the centre. They were startlingly... Beautiful. Beautiful was the only word she could find that did an ounce of justice towards them.

"No one. There's a lot you still need to learn red, but we'll get there in time. Lesson one starts now, never bring anything up, ever. If we're right about everything, Eleanor or Flint will bring it up. We'll pretend to argue for a while, then agree. Make it look like we put up a fight. If we bring it up, they will know we've already thought about it all, best bet is to act like we haven't thought of anything, too caught up in the idea of gold."

Clara pulled away, from her own mind thinking of any part of Vane as anything in the same category as the word beautiful, and away from him physically because she could feel his hot breath flutter over her cheeks. Giving a shaky nod, Clara muttered one word, grimacing at her lack of eloquence or verbal tact. Then again, she was just a simple bakers daughter, she had never been eloquent or tactful, why start now? But that wasn't the full truth was it? She didn't know who she was anymore, a ladies daughter? A Naval lieutenant's daughter? A Lords daughter? Clara stomped that down. She was Clara Flint, all and nothing but. Now was not the time for introspection.

"Okay."

A ruckus by the large open double doors of Guthrie's, that had been left barred open to let the minuscule breeze in from the humid night, brought all three to look over to the doorway. Flint came in the lead, long black coat flapping behind him like a raven's wings, followed by a blank-faced Eleanor Guthrie and a grinning Silver. Clara wasn't surprised at the latter's appearance or cheerful disposition. If Vane was the wild card in Nassau's deck, John Silver was the joker, Flint the king of spades, Eleanor the queen of diamonds, Rackham the Jack of clubs and Bonnie the queen of clubs.

Clara... Well, Clara didn't know where she quiet fit in yet. But if her own ambitions, schemes and if, IF, her end game came to fruition, what she needed the gold for, why she needed to be on a crew in the first place, why she needed to learn the ropes by one of the best pirates on this island, then by the grace of god, she would be the ace of spades. Clara span around from looking at the doorway when she heard Vane clamber up from his seat, looking down at Rackham as he did so.

"Show-time. Keep watch Rackham, don't let anyone too close to that room. After this meeting, me and Clara will be leaving for a while. Think of something to feed to the crew for the few days we're gone will ya?"

Clara scrambled for words, confused by this right sided blow.

"Leaving?"

Vane gave her a bemused look as he came around the table, offering her his hand, one which Clara ignored as she came to a stand. Why the hell did they need to leave? Together at that? Did she miss some shooting comet or great revelation? Like hell would she leave with Vane, she wasn't sure he wouldn't just ditch her or kill her.

"We need to find a place out of the way for the gold. If we take the entire crew, it will tug Flint and Eleanor into knowing we're up to something. Rackham needs to stay, he's my courter master and I trust him with my crew to look after shit while I'm gone. Plus red, you came up with this, you volunteered for following it through. Lesson number two, don't bring up idea's if you're not willing to do it yourself."

Clara looked over to Rackham with wide eyes, mentally imploring him to knock some sense into Vane. She wouldn't survive out there, not because she didn't know how to get by with only herself to rely on, but because either she would kill Vane or the more likely outcome, he would kill her. They could hardly stay in each others company for more than ten minutes without either Clara wanting to bash his head in, or he wanting to snap her neck, well, that's what she thought those blazing eyes meant and the one quirk of his high arched brow. Vane was one of the hardest people, she had run into so far, to read. However, hope for some back up was quickly diminished by Rackham's sly grin, looking ever like a fox.

"It would also alert our happenings to Flint and Guthrie if either myself, Vane or Anne were to leave this island altogether, or as a pair. You, however, are more easily explained away. Vane's teaching you how to sail, you've fallen ill with heat-stroke, or even you two have gone inland for a few days to sort out our crew's supplies for the long voyage ahead. No one will believe Vane would trust you with anything important, not with only having just joined the Ranger. In short? You are the perfect smoke screen."

Clara sighed deeply, eyes closing as she tried to calm herself down from doing something stupid. This was what she had signed up for, apparently. There was no way she was wiggling out of this one, and surely, if this venture did end in a fight between Vane and herself, she could at least leg it before he got the killing blow. Opening her eyes with a wave of her hands in front of her, as if baring herself, Clara smiled, lacking all warmth or humour and walked past Vane, to the rickety stairs leading downstairs and to the meeting room, speaking over her shoulder to the two men as she went.

"So, we're going on a trip then. Let's just get this over with."

Clara could hear Rackham chuckle and Vane's footsteps creaking on the stairs behind her as they descended into the boisterous crowd. Pushing passed scantily clad waitresses, drunk pirates and sweaty men, Clara tried to steel her spine, stand up straight, look up proudly and quench the worry building up within her. So many things could go wrong in the next week, too many to be able to get a sound sleep, if she was so inclined to get some in the first place. But as she and Vane came to the open doors of Guthrie's office, bright yellow walls meeting tired eyes, Clara knew what should be her first and foremost worry.

Being in a room with Flint, Guthrie and Silver, with Vane of all people being her only and sole backup. And as they entered, as the heavy doors clicked shut behind them with an ominous and resounding thunk, seeing Flint's and Eleanor's faces up close when they looked up at them, Clara realized this maybe her only worry, for with the tension choking them and those expressions greeting her, she wasn't sure she would be getting out of that room with a heartbeat.

* * *

 **Next chapter:** Silver and Clara have a chat, Flint and Clara clash and finally, Vane and Clara set off to find an Island to hide their gold on...

* * *

 **A.N:** I know it's been an awfully long time since the last update, but I do have a few reasons. One, after watching what happens in season three to a certain character, which made me cry, it was hard to figure out how to get around that or how to deal with it in this fic. Number two, I'm trying to give the best possible version of this story, and now that it's picking up speed in plot wise, I need to make sure I iron out the finer points, make a few twists and just plain old figure out how Clara works into this and that, and creating her own little arc too. And finally, I just started a new job, so training has sort of taken up a majority of my time.

So, I'm sorry for the long wait, I really am. But don't fear, even if (And I hope it doesn't happen again) there is another wait, I promise not to give up on this story. So Thank you to everyone who was patient, the reviews kept me thinking and writing this really, knowing how many people enjoy it and every ones kind words.

As for the whole relationships and when they are going to get there, buckle up good readers, for it will be a little while longer yet. Think of it as a slow burn, I really want them close, not just physically but emotionally and mentally too, a true and realistic relationship, for that to happen, friendship needs to come first and our good Trio isn't that close yet. However, attraction is there, and little bits will be dropped in as they grow closer. Like Clara thinking Vane's eyes were beautiful this chapter, it will build up slowly.

This was originally a part of the next chapter, but together they hit 15k and I had to break them up. But to make up for the long wait, this one is the longest chapter I've ever written, hitting 8k. So, the next one is a straight carry on from this one, no time skip or anything of such. If ANYONE has certain questions towards this story, if I haven't already included the answers in the **CHAPTER NOTES,** don't hesitate to leave it in a review or P.M and I'll try to explain them to the best I can. IF they have anything to do with the plot of this fic, or where it is heading, as in possible spoilers, then sorry, I'll just have to tell you it's part of the plot and leave it as that, I hate ruining surprises, and I have quite a few lined up for this fic.

 **THANK YOU** to everyone who followed, favourited and reviewed, you really are the reason I even put finger to keypad in the first place and keep doing so. As always, if you could spare a moment, drop a review, they're like my version of catnip! **-GoWithTheFlo20**

* * *

 **CHAPTER NOTES:**

 **As for what Clara is planning, why she needs the gold and her endgame,** I have left that out purposefully. Hints will be dropped in the following chapters, but it doesn't really come into play until after the whole Urca gold hunt. I wanted Clara to have her own arc, her own plans and schemes she will play out, instead of blindly following someone else's, as I've said, this is Clara's story, so it only makes sense that she has her own thing to do and I hope you lovely readers will enjoy it because it's quite big, well big to me that is. I will give you one hint more though, you will find out what it is when Edward Low hits Nassau and how I've had him handled in this fic.

As for the comparison of the Black sails characters and Clara to a deck of cards, I thought it fit well, as I've pictured them as such before. And when Clara does get into her stride, trust me, she is (Fingers crossed) going to live up to being the ace of spades. Call it foreshadowing.

 **Silver- Joker-** Because he's not even meant to be in the deck, only having been added in later years, not a part of any of the games, but is the most well known card. A little hat tip to how famous he will be once he becomes Long John Silver. Traditionally linked to the beginning, the end, and a great journey.

 **Flint- King of Spade's-** Because he is practically king of Nassau, but still dark, hence the spade suit. Traditionally linked to spiritual energy, wisdom, tremendous potential and leadership.

 **Eleanor- Queen of diamonds-** She is literally the one everything runs through, the selling, the transfer of money. Everything to do with her own riches and the riches of others. The queen of hearts is linked to Vanity, wealth and Self-importance.

 **Rackham- Jack of Clubs-** Not quiet king level, but still up there, also a hat tip to his name, Jack Rackham. Traditionally linked to memory, to evolve and unfortunate life experiences.

 **Vane- Wild card-** not an actual card of a traditional deck, but I still think it fits him perfectly because he's not a traditional pirate. Unpredictable, rash and headstrong.

 **Anne Bonnie- Queen of Clubs-** High status-ed, well-known reputation and cut throat nature, what other card would she be? Traditionally linked to strong will, decisive and impatience.

 **Clara Flint- Ace of Spades-** Traditionally the highest ranking card in English speaking countries. in metasymbology, known for hard labour, weathering through tough situations and wisdom. Also commonly and widely known as the **'Death card'** , often left as a calling card foreshadowing death for those who see it or have been given it. I think this fits perfectly with the direction Clara will be heading in this story.

Why am I telling you this? Because these character traits will bleed through into the story, also giving hints of what will come for each character in the following chapters. It also gives a better look at what Clara will become, and her path there.

Until next time!-GoWithTheFlo20


	13. I See You

Clara faltered for one moment, nothing more than a stutter in step, then went marching into the room with her head held high, shoulders squared back. Halfway onto the Persian rug, after looking at the oak desk standing proudly in the middle of the room and the people surrounding it, Clara plucked up a wooden chair laying idly to the side and dragged it towards the desk. Guthrie or Flint, had only put one chair at the desk, on the opposite side of their seats, and that was a blaring sign about how this meeting would go.

The chair was for Vane and Vane alone. She was expected to stand at the side, melding into the backdrop of peeling yellow paint, to listen and not be heard. She wasn't meant to be a part of this meeting, not in their eyes. Clara wanted to laugh, she was too tired, too utterly exhausted to put up with these types of games.

Clara flung the chair close to the desk, watching as it made a little dimple in the pattern of the rug. Strolling around it, she plopped unceremoniously into the stiff and unforgiving chair, slouching over the wood, her feet dangling over one of the chipped arms. The other seat, a plush velvet throne for all intents and purposes, was sitting close to her, close enough she would be able to touch the person who sat in it easily. And Vane did sit down, his sand covered boots kicking up and laying on the desk in front of them, one crossed over the other, looking smug.

In a contradictory state of their own, Flint sat next to Guthrie, arms folded as he sat spine straight in his own velvet chair, a decadent purple this time instead of Vane's vivid red, expression that could rival the most thunderous of storms gracing his face. Guthrie herself looked liked something that had leaped out of a painting. Hair coming undone from her twisted bun, golden curls falling around her face, delicately sat in the biggest seat of the room with her ankles crossed, hands in lap, a humourless twist to her lips and a dusk of pink flushing her cheeks. If this was a painting, something that hung in the halls of the louvre, Clara thought it would have been called the angry Duchess and her courtiers.

From the corner of her eye, Clara spotted Silver, partially laying on a love seat, made from the same velvet and wood as Vane's chair. However, it was pushed up against the farthest wall, right by the open shuttered window leading to the balcony, the moonlight casting one-half of his face in cold light while the other half was illuminated by the lit candles flickering around them. Orange and powder blue contrasting against each other on the landscape of his face, as he reclined on the seat, looking the most comfortable out of all of them, expression included.

When she turned back to look in front of her, she rued every taking her eyes from Flint and Guthrie. For during her appraisal of the room, they had both zeroed in on her, expressions dark and incredulous. However, Vane looked like he had expected just as much of her, and found the whole thing humorous. Then again, she had continuously defied Vane at nearly every turn.

She had defied Vane time and time again... Sometimes just for the hell of it and to see that fire burn in his eyes at her antics. It felt like putting your hand in the open maw of a growling lion, and then managing to get away before it snapped those huge teeth together. But she had not gotten a single scratch or blow from him since Noonan's all that time ago. That didn't seem to fit with the person she had pieced together in her mind, or fit with his reputation on Nassau.

Clara snapped out of it, refusing to get distracted in a situation like this, and because maybe she didn't want to know. She had wanted to know why everyone reacted to her last name, and now she had that answer, she wanted to give it back and never think about it again. Focusing back in on the room, Clara shuffled in her seat, crossed her arms over her chest and glared back at the two watching her like an injured deer.

"Instead of looking at me like that, we should get down to business and make a plan for this haul. The arguments can come after we have set sail and have the gold in the bowels of the Ranger and the Walrus."

Flint, with his dark eyes and even grimmer expression, tensed hard enough that Clara could see the skin of his hands, partially hidden by his jacket, grow pale and taunt. However, he smiled, white teeth flashing under a ginger beard and moustache. Clara found nothing calming or joyful of this particular smile. She felt like the bunny dangling in the snare, waiting for the big bad predator to come eat her up. Instead of cowering, Clara's own fire burned hotter, burning brighter than it should at a simple snark thrown her way. She blamed her tiredness, her control on her temper waning each second she was in this damned room.

And if they didn't finish this right here, if she didn't get five minutes to herself soon then even she didn't know what she would do. She had been through too much today, being locked in Vane's tent, witnessing what happened to Max on the shady corner of the beach, planning and scheming with Rackham, to this? It was too much to handle in a week, let alone the twenty-four hour time period it actually did happen in.

"Me and Vane, our crews, we're the ones who will be sailing and hunting the Urca. You, Clara, will be staying here."

Her resolve, that shell of glass holding back a hailstorm of warring emotions, fractured in her chest, threatening to let everything she had been holding back since she had arrived on Nassau to come tumbling out around her like a rapid waterfall of wrath, resentment, brashness, and blood, wiping through everyone in this room. Clara held it together poorly, with paper stitches and pure willpower, trying her best to keep her calm and resolve. She hadn't fully broken yet, she wouldn't now because of Flint's demand.

They wouldn't get to see how they affected her, how she was barely hanging on. But she was tired, tired of them and everything that had gone over in the last month and bit. She was stronger than this, she had to be to survive this world she belonged to now. So, standing on that edge of a tall cliff of emotion, Clara spoke, not caring for her choice of words or the company she was in, who she was speaking to and what they could, and very likely would do to her.

"Like fuck will I stay here! I gave you the schedule, I get to go!"

Eleanor smiled cheerily, warmly, friendly... On the surface, but Clara could see deeper, she could see the spider underneath the silken and velvet web. The blonde was luring her in, goading her, trying to get her to crack. They all were, and as loathed as she was to admit it, Clara knew it was working extremely well. She was just that one more step closer to falling off that cliff she had put herself on, readying to fall down into the jagged and crashing waves bellow her. God, if she fell, if they pushed her any more than they already had, she would take at least one down with her. Guthrie just so happened to be lining up to be first.

"Captain Flint is right. You have no battle experience, no fighting skills, no sailing skills, can you even read? You have... Nothing to add to this endeavour of ours. Nothing at all. It's best you stay where you belong."

Ours. Theirs. They had cut her out. Eleanor was, and had, cut her out fully, with the backing of Flint. They had taken the schedule, they had taken the only thing she could use to keep herself safe, to get herself anywhere but the bottom of Nassau and were now telling her to leave. They were shoving her out, after everything, after all she had done, after every step she had taken to make a place for herself, in one move it was all for nothing. She may as well be that girl back in chains on Flint's ship. And Vane... Vane wasn't speaking out against it. Even after she had helped him and Rackham plan this whole thing out.

All she could hear, repeating around her head in Eleanor's voice, was one word. Nothing. She had nothing. She was nothing. If Clara stayed on this island with Flint gone, with Vane gone, she was sure an 'unfortunate accident' would befall her in some capacity. Eleanor would greet them, give her condolence's, then they would all forget and marvel over the gold they had gotten, her dead body left to rot under the hefty sun... Alone, from her part of the schedule at that! Eleanor, she wasn't the only one. The lord's and Ladies back home, they looked at her the same, they spoke to her the same way, she was nothing to them either. It seemed no matter where she was in the world, no matter how many sea's separated her from England and her shit lot there, she would never break free of being nothing.

The dam, the one she had built up since coming onto Nassau, burst, breaking completely, the dam that held back every bad thing that had happened, every bad thing she had done, every repressed and held back thought, action and emotion. They filled her lungs as if she was drowning in all of it.

Slowly, as if not in control of her own movements, for once her frantic mind completely quiet, Clara turned to face Vane beside her. He simply stared back, saying nothing, doing nothing to help her. Nothing. She was nothing. Not even a baker's daughter any more. Like magnets, Clara's eyes left his and travelled to his belt, locking on to the polished and glittering Flintlock gun loosely hooked in his thick belt.

Before anyone could move, could figure out what she was about to do, Clara reached over and grabbed Vane's gun, bolting up to a stand, knocking her chair over, sending it flying to the floor with a bang. Before an exhalation of breath, Clara was there, standing in front of Eleanor and Flint, arm straight and unwavering as it was aimed at Guthrie's face from the other side of the desk, and as Clara reached up with her thumb and cocked the hammer into place, the inhabitants seemed to finally clocked on she was now armed and ready to blow a hole through Guthrie's head. When Clara did speak, no matter her blatant threat or her anger flushed face, her voice was calm and even. Too calm to sit comfortable in the other's ears.

"How long have you lived here Eleanor? All your life? In that time, how many people have you killed? How many deaths have you ordered? How many people have you seen die from high up in your little tower?"

No one moved, no one seemed to be breathing and for once, everything was deadly silent. No words exchanged, no birds singing, not even a whistle from the breeze, nothing. Just like what she was. Nothing... She had been a sewer rat her whole life, why would that have changed? Eleanor's teeth clenched as she spoke, her tone loosing the smooth flow it normally had.

"... None."

Clara chuckled heartily, the gun, however, didn't move an inch. Then her arm was moving, the gun now aimed at Silver, but her back never presented to the three at the desk, knowing if she took her eyes from them for one second, she would be going crashing to the floor, Vane or Flint taking her down. In full honesty, she wanted them to try, she wanted someone, anyone to try something so she could let out the anger inside her that was eating her up. The anger at the world she had held inside her for her entire life.

"None? Really? That... I thought it would be at least one poor fucker. Silver? while on this lovely Island, surrounded by these lovely people, how many people have you killed?"

"I don't think I account into this argument, I belie-"

"Answer the question!"

Silver looked soundly at her, frowning at her shout, watching as she came apart at the seams. He was the only one in the room who was looking at her, in her eyes, rather than the gun in her hand, at the finger hovering over the trigger, even though it was aimed at him now.

"No one Clara."

Clara lowered the gun a fraction, pulling it down and away from Silver as she chuckled once more, the cool wood and metal imprinting into her skin under her harsh grip. And she was the one who shouldn't be in on this deal? She was the one who was nothing, nobody? When Clara spoke, it was in that same emotionless tone she had before, but grew angrier with each passing word, ending in a shout of rage.

"I've been here six weeks, six fucking weeks! Forty-two days of being pushed around, being captured, locked up, looked down on, treated like a weapon to use against someone else. In those days, I've evaded Flint, tricked Rackham and Bonny, gone toe to toe with Vane, holding up for a while at least. I've escaped, I've won a crew over with no help but my own merit and mind, I held part of the schedule that you were hunting for, without none of you knowing I had it. I've had my world burn around me, only to build my own in its wake! If that isn't enough for you, then maybe you should go visit the eleven rotting bodies of the fuckers I've killed in that time, all to get me to here, standing in this god damned room to have you... You bastards dare tell me I'm nothing! Only when you've done that, then come back and tell me how I don't belong, how the girl with no skills, who has out thought every single one of you at least once, has nothing to offer!"

Once she had started, it all just came spilling out, a never ending flow of things she didn't want to see the light of day. Her weakness's, the horror's and guilt that haunt her in the twilight hours, her shame and pride mixed as one entity that shouldn't exist. Then Eleanor did the worst thing she could have possibly done when Clara was feeling the way she was. She scoffed.

Before a fully formed thought could Cross Clara's mind, her arm was swinging up, gun going for Eleanor's head, finger clenching, readying to pull the trigger. A chest blocked her view, blocked her aim, and in her shock, her trigger finger slacked its pressing, stalling over the trigger. Eyes running up the chest to the persons face, it took a while for Clara to realize what she had been about to do, kill the twelfth person, and who was blocking said action from taking place. Vane was standing in front of her, barrel pressed to his chest, eyes alight with fire, fire she knew this time was undiluted anger.

The puzzle pieces fit together, clicked and slid into place and Clara knew. Knew it all. Vane's lack of involvement in their conversation earlier, especially when Eleanor was brought up. Why he always said If they were right about her, even to Rackham. Why he didn't gun for the blonde when she had tried to have him banished. Why he was standing in front of a loaded gun for her, ready to take a deadly shot to the chest. Vane... Vane had feelings for Eleanor. Strong ones by the looks of it. Clara... Clara didn't know how to feel about that. Eleanor wanted her put in her place before, god knows what she wanted now that Clara had nearly shot at her.

"Excuse Clara, she's tired. Don't worry about the sailing or fighting, Bonny and I will teach her the basics before we set sail."

A child. Vane was treating her like a child who was throwing a temper tantrum, not someone who had been under so much that they finally broke and spilled their darkest thoughts and feelings, the demons that haunted them. Because that was what she was to him wasn't she? To everyone, she was and always would be a child. That hurt more than she could put into words. It was a dagger to her heart. It hurt more than it should have, and Clara didn't know why.

Her arm slacked, the appendage falling to her side uselessly, gun slipping out her loose hand and falling to the padded floor of the rug. Blank faced, blank-eyed, she looked Vane dead in the eye, her voice monotone as she spoke, her chest squeezing tightly, her breath not coming to her, a lump forming in her throat.

"I... I... I need air."

And then Clara did what she did best, she ran. She spun around and stormed to the door, twisting the brass handle open harshly, with a heave and fling of her wrist, the door swept open with a protesting squeak. Then she was gone, out of the room and back into the roaming crowds of Guthrie's, trying to smother everything in the thick group of bodies, trying her best to hide.

She was stupid, she was foolish. Even if she hadn't acknowledged it before, even if she refused to see it, deep down she had relied on Vane, thought he saw her for her, thought he respected her, thought he would be someone she could trust, someone she could fall back on. She was wrong. She was so terribly wrong. Now she knew the truth. She was a simple, stupid, lowly child to him. Someone to use when he needed, then send to bed like an errant toddler when he didn't. Vane brought out the worst and best of her, and she hated him for it, loathed him for having that effect when she didn't have the same on him.

Coming to the main bar of Guthrie's, Clara braced herself on the wood with white-knuckled hands, ordering rum as soon as the person behind it looked in her general direction. When the buxom brunette woman was about to pour it into a tankard, Clara reached over and snagged the whole bottle, bringing it to her lips and drank from the green blown glass deeply, liking the burn for once.

"One of those days love?"

Clara pulled the bottle away, wiped her mouth on the back of her sleeve and levelled a look on the grinning waitress.

"One of those lives."

The waitress chuckled and went back to work, leaving Clara alone. She was always alone, even surrounded by people, she had never felt that crushing emotion quiet like she did right then. She didn't know how long she was there for, standing at the bar, drinking, it could have been seconds or hours, but she was just passed halfway of the bottle when she felt a heavy warm hand on her shoulder, gently turning her to face the person behind her.

Silver greeted her with a frown, features soft as his hand squeezed her shoulder tightly, his voice barely able to get over the loud crowd around them, blocking them in, pushing them together. She didn't know whether she was glad it was Silver, or angry it was. She didn't know anything any more.

"What was that? What were you thinking Clara?"

Clara took another drink from her bottle, shaking Silver's hand from her shoulder. She didn't want to be touched, she didn't want to be around anyone. Not now, maybe not ever. Yet, after the drink had sizzled into her gut, she found herself rambling away. Now that she had opened up, maybe she couldn't stop, maybe she didn't want to, maybe she was just drunk or maybe she wanted someone to see her for how she saw herself. A person in too deep, a person who had killed people... A monster.

"I wasn't thinking. At all. Ever since I've stepped foot into the cooks holding on Captain Ludford's ship, the person who came out isn't me. I haven't known who I am, who I should be. I've... I've lost myself so completely that I don't know who I was to begin with. Eleven people have paid the price for that. Eleven John. And I'm... I'm scared. I'm scared of what I've done, what I will do, what I've said, who I am now. The worst part? I enjoyed it all in a sick way, wanted more. I think I've made a huge mistake, I've chosen the wrong side. I had a chance of a normal life, with a woman who would care for me and I threw it away. I know why Vane has me on-board his ship, a petty dig at Flint, after the novelty has worn off, then what will he do? I know as soon as his crew has their gold, after the shine and glitter has grown boring and they realize just who they have let onto their ship, they will turn on me too, when the time is right."

Clara's voice grew shaky, her eyes misty, yet her tongue carried on despite her minds screaming protest, telling her she couldn't trust Silver, shouldn't trust him. Look at what just happened, and here she was doing it again. Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me...

"And I've done this to myself. I'm the enemy. How can I fight myself? I can't... I've lost it all before I even had it truly... I think I've lost my mind too... Even my soul...Gone by my own hand..."

This time, two hands landed on her shoulder, pulling her eyes to Silver's, not having realized she was staring blankly at nothing until this point. He pulled her closer, so close she could feel the heat of him radiate off from him and warm her shaking and icy bones.

"Even if you do not know who you are, I do. The Clara I know wouldn't give up, wouldn't dare give in to people like those in that room. She would stand proudly, spit at the person who was holding the sword to her neck. Do you think you're any worse than the men and women in this very building? Everyone here has blood on their hands, every god damned one. If it wasn't you who killed the cook, I would have without a doubt. For those other ten, I couldn't care less. Do you know why? Because I know you, even in the short time we've kept company. You wouldn't have killed them, or had them killed, if there was no other option, or if they didn't deserve it. Flint? Vane? Rackham? Guthrie? They can go fuck themselves. They do not hold your worth, for you are worth ten of them. Show them that, like the Clara I know would. You're not insane, or I am too for believing in you. As for your soul... Fuck god too while we're at it. What has he ever done for either of us?

Clara couldn't speak, could only listen and stare as Silver talked on.

"In the beginning, it was me and you wasn't it? A bit of tit for tat got in the way, you saved my life with the cook, I saved yours in Noonan's, I betrayed you at the rocks, you betrayed me on that beach... Now we find ourselves on opposite ends of the chessboard, but still in the same spot we've always been on throughout our lives. We're on the same boat you and I. Both balancing on a Captains word and temper. Flint, Vane, interchangeable really. We're both new here and new in this game we find ourselves playing. Yes, both crews and captain's can turn on us when the Urca is secured, we could die in the battle for it. But, if we have each other's backs like we did in the beginning, we'll make it through, we survived Flint's boarding of Ludford's ship didn't we? Like we agreed upon in that back alleyway, you and I, me and you, together, they won't know what's hit them. If the world falls out from underneath our feet, we do what we promised each other in Max's room. Fuck everyone else, they can all burn around us."

Clara reached up to her cheek with shaking fingers, fingers dabbing under her eyes and pulling back as she stared at the wetness there. She was crying. She hadn't even cried when Mary had died, not when they were boarded, not through anything. Yet, with Silver, standing in the bustle of a crowd, they flowed freely. For she saw it, she saw him as he saw her. Flint saw Clara as the babe he held, as the child in silk dresses and bows. He saw her ghost. Eleanor saw the trouble she could cause, the nuisance she could become, she saw what Clara could do. Vane, he saw what she could be morphed into, the person she could become given the right tutelage and guidance. Vane saw her future self.

Silver saw none of that, or he did and did not care for it. He saw her as she was, who she was. He saw her, faults and all and he still believed in her, saw her as a good person, when even she, herself, did not. She didn't know she needed that as much as she did until she was faced with it head on. He, John Silver, saw her and excepted her. He didn't want her to be her old self, didn't want her to change, didn't care for how good of a tactitional player she would become later on. He. Saw. Her. Clara. Plain ol' Clara. Not Clara Flint, not a would-be pirate, not a trouble-maker. Just Clara. And looking into his sky blue eyes, she didn't see Silver, didn't see the silver tongue or a sharp mind that could and possibly did equal her own, she saw John. The man who was fighting just as hard as she was to find his place here. She saw him too. She saw an ally, a comrade... A kindred soul. She saw John.

But Clara couldn't bring herself to say that, couldn't find the right words that would convey what she thought and felt to its full extent. So, she settled for a promise, one they had nearly made in Max's room, before Vane, before the schedule threw them on opposite ends, before the shit had hit them.

"Me and you. With five hundred peso's, off to some sunny beach. Where there are no captains, no pirates, no crews."

Silver... John, smiled so brightly it almost blinded her, especially when no one had smiled quite like that at her before. Vane smirked like a wolf. Flint's smile reminded Clara of a shark and Eleanor, Eleanor's was a mocking twist on the normally jovial gesture. His warm hand moved, fingers tangling into one of her various curls, twisting it around and playing with the curl as he smiled, promising her back.

"To a sunny beach, with plenty of rum. With five hundred pesos and a new start. Me and you."

Then Clara was moving closer, wrapping her arms around Silver's waist, hugging him tightly, head resting against his chest, hearing his steady heartbeat resound in her ear, letting his blue jacket soak up her tears, clutching at the back of it with tight hands. His arms slid around her back, pulling her in tightly, one hand cusping the back of her skull where her head and neck met, his face turning into her mane of curls. As her tears dried, as her resolve re-hardened, as her determination bloomed like it had never done before, as her own heartbeat matched Silver's, She whispered to him, needing to warn him, needing to tell him of the threat of the Spanish.

"You're my friend John, maybe my only true one here. Never forget that. Never doubt it. Not any more. When the time comes, when we have the Urca's gold, don't put yours in the Fort. Where ever you place it, just not the fort. In time, the Spanish will come and th-"

"What the fuck are you doing Clara?"

Clara pulled away from Silver, like he burned her, and swivelled to the one person who that deep gravelly voice could possible belong to. Bloody Charles Vane. She straightened herself out, feeling re-energized, stronger, better than she had felt in a long time. Reaching over to the bar, she swiped the half empty bottle of rum she had placed there when Silver had started talking, and waved it around from side to side, glaring at 'her' captain.

"Having a god damned drink."

Clara started to walk away, but turned back last second, sending one last smile of appreciation to Silver, which he returned. Then she was marching passed a pissed off Vane, only to be intercepted by Flint by a grab to her arm. She almost cracked him over the head with her bottle of rum. Almost.

"Before we all depart for the tasks ahead, I need a word with Clara."

Vane went to speak, but Guthrie nodded in the direction of that yellow room and Clara was already agreeing begrudgingly. Right now, despite speaking to Flint being the bottom of the list of things she wanted to do, she wanted it out of the way. She also didn't want to hear a single word from Vane, she wanted him as pissed and hurt as she was when he fucked her over in the very same room she was walking towards with Flint. Silver was right. She was worth more than what they thought she was, what they were willing to pay for her. She would show them that.

* * *

"There's still a chance. Turn your back on all this and go back to Miranda's house, I'll take you there myself right now. You won't have to deal with any of this. Really Clara, what are you doing here anyhow?"

Flint was standing at the balcony window, having taken up a spot there as soon as the doors had closed behind them. He refused to look at her, and the seconds seemed like hours before he spoke. Clara didn't move from her own spot, standing in the middle of the room as she stared at Flint's back intently. Out of all the possibilities, from yelling to downright murder, she hadn't expected him to give her an out, not after everything she had done, to him, to other people, to what she had admitted to doing in front of him.

Clara had been honest today, to Silver, and she would pay the same due to her... To her father. It was the least she owed him after her beach stunt, after he was still offering her an out to all this. But she wouldn't take it. She couldn't. Her plan, the one she wanted to follow, the one that was only a daydream hours prior was only cemented into her very being by Silver's speech. She would do it. For herself, for Silver, for every poor bastard that was like her and him. For the friends who died young, to the friends from back home who she had to leave behind. For them, she would. She had to now.

"You heard my little outburst didn't you? I can't go back. Not now. Not after what I've done. But... But I can make it mean something, I can make it lead to something good. I have to try, for my self-respect at least. I can't... I can't live with myself if I don't fix it. Make it better. Give a reason to what I've done other than self-survival."

She wanted him to understand, needed him to. Maybe they weren't so different, her and Flint. In this hellish day, she had learned multiple things. One was you were never born a pirate. Circumstances and situations forced you to become one. And with this revelation, she couldn't help but wonder what had forced Flint into this life. Was it something to do with Miranda, Thomas, herself? Maybe all three? Unfortunately, the only one who knew that was Flint, and she doubted he would tell her any-time soon.

"By joining Vane's crew? You do realize what that... Man is capable of don't you? You do know he is only using you to get to me?"

No, joining Vane's crew wasn't her plan, it was a snap decision, but it would help guide her, give her the tools to chisel out plan from the stone prison it was caged in. And really, she had never fully known Vane, not one bit, she had only joked herself into thinking she could sort of understand him, understand some of his ticks, some of his motives. But, he was as much a stranger, an anomaly as he was when he had joined her table in Noonan's. She knew that more than ever now.

"Of course not. I know who Vane is, I can guess what he is capable of because I've seen it first hand, and even then I'm sure he is capable of so much more. But what other option did I have at the time? None apart from sitting and wasting away in that house with the woman you had dumped me on."

Flint partially turned around this time, arms folded over his chest, long black coat swaying around his legs from the breeze that was picking up pace from outside the balcony.

"She's your mother-"

"She's a stranger. Warm and smiling and more than gracious, but a stranger to me all the same. Just like you."

Flint turned around fully, his back now to the open shutters and night, strolling close to her, stopping a few feet away. Clara braced herself for the worst, for if you expected the worst, whatever came could only be better.

"I may be a stranger Clara, but at least if you had have stayed where you were supposed to, you could rest assured that at the end of the day I wouldn't plant a dagger in your belly."

Clara chuckled. Vane and Flint had something in common after all. They both believed they knew what she was supposed to do, how she should act, who she should be. Now, Clara didn't give a fuck about any of that. She was Clara, and no matter how dark she became, how twisted or scarred, she would always be Clara. She would do what she thought was best, she would act the way she wanted to, she would say whatever she wanted because it was her life. Not Flint's, not Vane's, not Silver's, hers.

"And that's the problem isn't it? What I'm supposed to do... You or anybody else do not have the right to tell me what I'm supposed to do, who I'm supposed to be. That is my right and my right alone. How can you stand there, a pirate, and berate me for following the same path when you're the one who threw me on it!"

Flint's jaw clenched, his arms falling to his sides as they curled and knotted into balls by his hips.

"Can't you see? I'm trying to make sure you don't end up dead! Have you ever sailed on a battleship? Ever gotten into a fight that includes fifty men either side with only a dagger in your hand? You carry on with this, you go on this hunt, and it will end with your death."

Clara roughly ran a hand through her tangled locks as she too grew more agitated.

"I know that! But I can't be locked up either. Not by you, not by anybody else. Vane offered me an alternative and I fucking took it okay? And if I am to die, I would rather die in relative freedom then a prison masquerading as a home. My home was in England, my home was with Mary, my home was Mary, the only person to ever understand me fully, and she's dead! My home is dead! I would rather die on a battleship, bloodily, then in a strangers house, on an Island, I have no say in, no place. You did that! You brought me here! Why are you so angry that I'm actually looking out for my own future? You don't have to keep your crew in line with me any more, I've just made your life much easier. You should thank me!"

Flint stormed over, plucking her up by her biceps and held her still, his voice somehow simultaneously having sadness and anger warring against each other.

"You are my daughter! I may not have been there all your life, I may not have been there when you needed me most, but I'm here now. I was the first to hold you, I used to tell you stories as you slipped off to sleep in your cradle. By god almighty will I let you die pointlessly on another man's cause! I had to leave you for your own safety but don't ever think it came easy for me. There wasn't a single day that has passed that you have not graced my mind. You are my daughter and I... I love you."

Silence, all there was silence, deafening silence. All Clara could think about was England. About everything bad that she had seen, witnessed and gone through. The poor, broken children who died before they had a single chance. The prostitutes hustled into that life because they had no other option. The robbers, the mine workers who coughed up blood that was as dark as their soot filled faces, the disease, the dead, the poverty and squalor. The pure hopelessness.

Yet, here it could be different, it could be so much better. She could make it better. This island, Nassau, could become a haven for people like the ones she had seen, the broken and unloved, for people just like her. And that was why she couldn't turn away from this. Surely, if Flint loved her like he said, he could see it too, he would understand why she could not walk away. Why she wouldn't walk away.

"You don't see it do you? You, Vane, Rackham, Bonnie, Guthrie, Gates, everyone on this island? None of you can see it... Maybe I can because I'm looking through new eyes. Maybe you have all stayed here too long to see it clearly, or you're all blinded by the promise of gold. This island, this paradise, this little piece of untouched land, not corrupted by faulty governments, fat kings and queens, ruled by the rich for the rich... It can be so much more than it is! If I have to get my hands bloody to make it so, I'll paint myself red. You're all so short-sighted, always looking for the next prize, grappling for the next riches to come your way, always looking at tomorrow instead of next month. But from what I see, from where I stand... You won't have to worry for me, not when you see for yourself what this place could be, could mean to people, what it will be. In time, you'll see it was never me you had to be worried for..."

Flint's hands slid from her arms slowly, a morose smile dancing across his lips as he looked at her. He rose one hand, rubbing his rough thumb across her cheek before letting that drop too. He seemed resigned.

"I too once held that same glint in my eye, that same face, that same hope... You will learn in time it can never be. Whatever you're planning, it will never come to pass, Nassau herself will not let it. This life is not one you should choose. Just... Be careful..."

Clara nodded and turned around walking towards the door. As her hand rested on the cool metal, Clara spoke one final time, speaking words she never thought she would, not to Flint, because maybe, with the hunt for the Urca about to happen, this would be her one and only chance to tell him. Then she opened the door and left once more, heading towards Vane, who was waiting by the door.

"I love you too."

It was bitter sweet on her tongue.

* * *

As soon as they had stepped out of Guthrie's, Vane following her, neither saying a single word to the other, a rough hand shoved her into an alleyway they were walking passed. Clara stumbled, nearly hitting the brick wall, but managed to save herself last second. Spinning around, she found Vane bearing down on her.

"What the fuck were you thinking back there? Throwing a gun around? Cozying up to that Silver boy? "

Clara pushed off from the wall, glaring up at Vane fiercely. If he wanted to go at it now, then by all means, she was more than ready. In fact, she was itching for the chance.

"She need's to learn I won't lap at her feet like a little puppy for its mother's milk... Not like some people around here."

Vane's lips thinned and his nose crinkled in anger as he regarded her with hard eyes.

"The fuck you mean? You better not be hinting about me little Fox, because it's not only Eleanor who needs to learn her place."

Clara lost it, flinging both her palms into Vane's chest, making him stumble back and away from her. He had come close on purpose, without a doubt, using his height difference to intimidate her into submission. Not any more, no one else would scare her. And that nickname, that one word he had chosen to call her on a whim. He had no right to call her that, none what-so-ever. No one did. Only one had ever called her Fox, and it would always be only one.

"Don't ever call me that again or I swear to god it will be your last word! Oh, I hint indeed! You hardly had a single comment earlier when we, me, you and Rackham, were trying to sort this mess we find ourselves in, out. You jumped chest first in front of a loaded gun, trigger in the process of being pressed! The very same woman who wants my head on her silver platter right now. The same who tried to banish you hours prior! I have stuck my neck into the proverbial noose for you and your crew, and this is how you repay me? By making me look like a child in front of her? By belittling me? And what? I sit here, I twiddle my thumb's and say my please's and thank you's? Should I bow to you now? Do a little twirl and curtsy?"

Clara was working herself up, only this time it felt good, felt ecstatic. She wasn't giving away her secret's, wasn't showing her weakness's this time. No, she was pissed beyond belief and Vane would be the recipient of that. And god, did it feel good. Vane bounded over, shoving her back into the brick wall by her shoulder, pinning her there while he bent down, so they were face to face, eye to eye.

"Perhaps I was wrong, you're not as smart as I first believed. No. I hope not. I think you don't have a fucking clue on how to control your temper. I didn't have no 'comment' to give because you and Rackham had it figured to the dot between the both of you. You two hardly let anyone get a word in edgeways. As for the gun? Think about it red. I didn't do that for her, I fucking did that for you. You don't know Eleanor, you don't know her father. But if you had have pulled that trigger, when her father got back, there would be no wanting your head on a platter, he would have it on a pike for all of Nassau to see, and not for his daughter's sake but because of the smear on his name if he didn't act. There would be nothing I could've done to stop that. So yes red, say your god-damned please's and thank you's. I saved your life."

Vane leaned in closer, so close the tips of their nose's touched, her hair tickling his cheek, pupil's locked on to her own.

"And here's lesson three Red, next time you aim a gun at me, you better be ready."

Clara didn't know what it was, this feeling inside of her, bubbling up and choking her from the inside. She wanted to lash out, attack, pull and push, but not quite. So she fell back onto what she did know. She fought with her fists. From her angle, she kicked at his knee, sending him backward a step or two. But that wasn't enough for her, she needed more because it didn't feel right, it wasn't fixing that feeling that was climbing inside of her. Charging forward, Clara raised her fist and slammed it into his temple, making his head snap to the side and forcing him to stumble back even further. It gave her some satisfaction but did nothing to dampen that feeling weighing heavy in her chest and gut, making her heart beat erratically.

"Don't worry, the next time I aim a gun at you, I'll make sure to pull the fucking trigger!"

Clara went in for another attack, but Vane grabbed her wrist in an iron grip, sending his own sailing her way. Clara could have sworn she heard the crunch of bone as it connected to her cheek bone, the pain only rearing its ugly head as she fell to the floor.

"That's right. Punch me Clara. For once let loose, don't think just act. Don't you get tired of constantly running in circles? What? Did daddy never teach you that? Did daddy forget you?"

Clara gave out a noise, halfway stuck between a grown and a yell. Her hand came into contact with something round and rough, a rock that had likely come loose from one of the alley's walls. Bouncing up from her sprawled out form, Clara swung hard. The rock, about the same size of her hand if it was spread open, hit Vane where his jaw and neck met, sending him sailing to the floor as he lost his footing, landing on the sandy street face first. Clara wasted no time. Jumping onto his back, knees on either side of his waist, she tangled her hand into his ponytail and pulled his head back, only to slam it into the floor with a loud thunk.

"What about your daddy? Or was it Mummy? Did Mummy pay too much attention to you, did she love you a bit too much?"

Clara went to slam his head down for the third time, only to be bucked off him and straight into the wall, the side of her face skimming the rock, leaving a large graze for sure. It didn't stop there, a kick cracked into her ribs, knocking the air out of her and sending her into the wall once more.

"Really red? That all you got? I know about the other ten, but what about the first? How the fuck did someone like you manage that?"

Clara snarled, and as his leg made contact for the second time, she slid onto her haunches, grabbed his leg with both arms, pulled for all she was worth, once his other leg was close enough, she let go with one arm, still holding it with the other, pulled back and sent her fist crashing into the side of his knee, making him crumple to the floor with a harsh grown. She scrambled up and went to stomp on his chest, only for Vane to gab her leg and send her back to floor with a sweep, this time on her back. She had no time to react, for he was on top of her, his knees pinning her arms down to the floor, huffing and at least bleeding from his jaw and nose, where she had hit him with the rock and slammed his face into the floor. Then... Then he smiled down at her. An actual smile. It made her stop her struggling, bucking and wiggling, confused.

"Lesson four, don't bottle your anger up. Let it out. In a fight, in a scream, in anything. Just get it out or it will cloud your judgement. Lesson five, you have the basics of fighting down pat, but for your size, never go for brute strength. Be fast, go for the pressure points instead of the face and when you get the person down, make him stay down as quick as possible. Lesson six, if we're to get any further, if you really want to be on the Ranger, on my crew, you have to start trusting me, even when it looks as if you shouldn't. You're going to need to remember this for when we set sail for the Urca. Which, by the way, you should thank me for convincing Flint and Eleanor to let you back on after the bullshit you pulled."

This... This was all a big lesson? He riled her up to get her to what? To fight him? So he could point out her faults in it? Wasn't he actually trying to kill her for threatening Eleanor? Did she fall down a rabbit hole? Did she hit her head too hard? Did he?

"Everything fine back there? You two didn't look very impressed with the meeting when you left. No bad tidings I hope? I-... Am I interrupting something?"

A shadow came over them, Vane looked over to the entrance of the alley, Clara had to crane her neck to see, and for her efforts, she was met with Rackham, whose eyes were darting between the two. Clara sprawled and pinned on the floor, neck bent oddly to look at him, Vane on top, pinning her down with his weight and knees. Both bleeding, Clara's grazed cheek, the side of Vane's jaw and nose. Vane scoffed, dusting his hands off on his leather trousers, he stood up and off of Clara. Clara rolled onto her front, and with a grunt heaved herself up, clutching at her side, near her bottom ribs.

"Everything is fucking fine. Swell, if you don't take into count little red loosing her temper and trying to blow Eleanor's head off right from the beginning that is."

Rackham frowned at the both of them only to smile and hold a finger up as if he had just figured out how to prove life after death.

"Actually, Clara may have helped our cause. I overheard Guthrie speaking to Mr. Scott, squalling on about how we are fighting between ourselves, savagely is the word she used. If Eleanor believes such, she won't see what we are actually about to do. We... You two weren't actually fighting were you? Because a façade of a broken crew is better than one actually coming to fruition..."

Vane huffed and strolled to the entrance of the alleyway, Clara glaring at his fine stride when all she could do was sort of limp into the open, wind still knocked out of her.

"No. Teaching Red how to fight. She's got some way to go yet. When we get back, I want you to teach her how to read and write... You don't know how to, do you? That's why you didn't know how the part of the schedule you owned could be used so well, it was all a gamble back on the beach wasn't it?"

Clara grimaced, her rib throbbing as she clutched harder at it. It wasn't broken, but bruised for sure and it stung like a bitch with every inhale and exhale. But the worse was the bruise to her ego about to come, admitting she couldn't read or write.

"No. I can't"

Vane nodded as if he expected as such.

"Good. We'll be gone for three days top, tell the crew we're going inland to do inventory, It's what I told Flint and Eleanor we would be doing. When we get back, we have one week before we set sail on the Urca hunt. When you're not fixing up the ship or dealing with the crew, you'll teach red how to read and write, the basics for now. And Bonny, she'll teach her how to use a sword. One week and three days, then we all need to be ready for this. Did you get what I asked for?"

Rackham hummed and handed Vane a satchel, Clara meanwhile was too caught up in her aches and pains to notice or care she would be forced into literary lessons with Rackham and fighting lessons with Anne Bonny, or to care for when Rackham starting sprouting off everything he had fetched for Vane.

"Yes, it should all be there. Spare guns, daggers, and knives. A scarf to hide Clara's hair, a change of clothes for you and Anne had a spare set of clothes from years ago, too small for her now, that should fit Clara... Better than the rags she's in now. I'll stay around here, make sure you two aren't followed by Flint or his crew. Anne's bringing the horse and the row boat is all set up on the eastern rock formation, ready for you both to leave."

Leave... Were they leaving the island now? All Clara wanted to do was eat and maybe drink more rum. No, there was no maybe. She did indeed want more rum. But then Vane was digging through the leather satchel, chucking a long blue scarf her way, and Clara winced as she wrapped it around her head, hiding as much of her hair as possible. Then before she could question a single thing, before she had even fully wrapped her hair up securely, Anne Bonny was there, handing the reigns of the horse over and Vane was sliding into place on it.

"Why is there only one horse?"

Well, she did get one question in after all. And not really one of the important ones. But there was no sign or hair of another coming, and although she couldn't ride properly, she really didn't want to ride with Vane. Not after the Alleyway fight they just had.

"If one horse goes missing, It's less suspicious when they're looking out for two people. Now come on, we're burning up time. You coming or not?"

Clara sighed deeply, looking at Vane's outstretched hand, wondering why the hell she kept doing this to herself. But that was it. At least on this side of Vane, she knew what he was doing, knew what he was planning, knew who he was after. On this side, she could keep Flint and Silver relatively okay. She could help them while she helped herself. And now that she knew he hadn't simply turned on her in Guthrie's office because of his feelings, for he did have them for the blonde, Clara wasn't that stupid, but had in a way helped her. She couldn't turn her back on him now, couldn't turn her back on Silver or Flint either. She was trapped in impossible choices.

Reaching up, Clara grabbed onto his had, grimacing in pain as he heaved her up and onto the horse in front of him,sliding her to his front closely, and before she could change her mind, go back into Guthrie's and drink her worries and sorrows away, the horses hooves were pounding on sand and they were off to find another Island, a secret place, a hiding spot.

* * *

 **NEXT CHAPTER:** Boat's and chats, swimming lessons, fighting lessons, and Vane has picked one hell of an Island to place their treasure on, one where Clara is going to need to use her lesson's...

 **A.N-** Someone asked me if I could choose songs to fit the characters (Clara) and her relationships. And well, after searching a lot of songs, these three stood out to me. They don't quite fit them yet, but they will in time. So, if you want to give them a go, have a listen, then go ahead. If anyone has other songs they think fit Clara or her relationships, then drop me a P.M or a review and I'll take a look! I like hearing back from the readers, seeing it from their point of view, instead of just writing a chapter and then nothing. So, come interact! Just a tip, find a lyric video to get the full meaning of the song.

 **Song list.**

 **Clara-** Blood on my name- The Brothers Bright

 **Clara and Vane** \- Bonfire heart (Or heart to heart by the same artist, can't quite decide which one.)-James blunt

 **Clara and Silver** \- Budapest- George Ezra.

 **Clara, Silver, Vane** \- Who we are/Warriors- Imagine Dragons

 **Thank you** to everyone who reviewed followed and favourited. You are the Captains of the internet sea! If you have a spare moment, please leave a review, they're better then shirtless Vane... Well, they're nearly as good as a shirtless Vane ;-) -GoWithTheFlo

 **QUESTIONS/ANSWERS:**

 **Will there be a Rackham/Oc story?** \- Short answer? Yes. Long winded one? It will take some time yet. When I started posting this story, I already had half of the plot mapped out. So I've been thinking it over, and while the Rackham/oc one is still nothing more than a basic design yet, it should be started soon (ish). I just need to grow the idea a bit more and put the pieces together, so it should start when this story hits its twentieth chapter (Or around that). So while that's still seven chapter's away, it is on its way, good readers!

 **Will there be more moments between Clara and Anne Bonny, like sword fighting lessons?** \- For the person who asked this, you must have seen it coming. Because I was already planning on doing it for a while now. It won't be next chapter, but maybe the one after that, or at it's latest, the 16th chapter. I hope you guys look forward to it, Anne is not going to take it easy on Clara, and Clara isn't going to make it easy for Anne to teach her. And to make it more authentic, and realistic, I've spent hours literally watching video after video of sword fighting techniques for that time period.

 **Will Clara get into a more action/fighting?** \- Yes definitely. This chapter has a hint of it, but next chapter is going to be less emotionally based and very full throttle in that department. And so do the following chapter's, for the hunt for the Urca is on!

 **Is this story rated M for future smut?** \- Well, I was debating with this a lot lately. One, because some younger viewers could see it. But then again, if they and you are watching Black Sails and reading its fanfiction, then you've seen the multiple sex scene's in the show already, and actually adding that in would seem, to me at least, keeping true to the feel of the show. However, it's still debatable. So, as always I leave it up to you readers, Do you want smut to be included in this fic? Drop me a P.M or a review your answer and as always, the majority wins out!

 **Have the Pirates accepted Clara so quickly?** \- No, they haven't, Clara still has a long way to go yet. So far, she's managed to blind them with the promise of insurmountable gold and riches, and as pirates, they've leaped onto that and her subsequently. However, Clara know's this too. So it's still a rocky road for her. I can't say much more, for it will ruin the plot of this fic.

 **Who is Edward Low?** \- He's Ned low, the very same from the show. He is based on a real pirate, like a lot of Black Sails characters. In real life, his name was Edward Low, nicknamed Ned by close friends. I will call him Edward, because I've blended more of his real life counterpart into this fic, and he becomes a major player. I can't say much because it will give away the plot, but I will give you some comparisons. Edward Low grew up in London, the same city Clara did. He lived in poverty, the same as Clara. He ran London's streets as a wild child, stealing and pickpocketing from a young age... The very same as Clara. He used to be friends with orphans and other children like he who lived in poverty... Like Clara. And at age fifteen, he moved to Boston, America, the same place Clara was going to move to before Flint high-jacked captain Ludford's ship. I kind of didn't like how the show showed him as a one dimensional insane bastard. Don't worry, in this fic he's just as much a lunatic, but there's reason behind his madness in this. Because in real life, even though he was a blood-thirsty fucker, he also used to carry round his little brother in a wicker basket on his back, same say for pick pocketing, but other records report his younger brother being ill, and that was why he did that, so his younger brother could get out and play too. He was also one of the only pirates to refuse outright at killing women and married men (In real life, the show threw that out the window). If any pirate showed duality, it was Ned Low. I've had this plot line in the works since the very beginning, so buckle up! That's all I can say, and I think I've pretty much given away what's going to go down there now anyway. XD

Until next time!-GoWithTheFlo20


	14. Man-Goose

Chapter fourteen: Man-Goose.

A nine-year-old Clara pumped her legs to move faster, darting in and out of the legs of the towering men and women around her. Eventually, she gave up, forgoing the rushed sorry's and excuse me mam's, for simple pushing and running fast enough not to be caught by her shirt tail. This was the third day in a row her friend had not turned up at their normal meeting spot, and that alone spelled trouble, especially in the part of London he lived in. In the bigger picture, if her small bakery next to a recently shut down brothel was compared to his... Living courters, then she looked like many of the lords daughters they often mocked together.

Taking a sharp right, hopping over a large pile of dirty hay, narrowly missing falling into the loose bundle that reeked of horse manure, Clara dodged her way down the tall bricked and thin alleyway that was barely more than a slither of open space between buildings. When she came to an old door, half hanging off its hinges, she didn't bother to knock, knowing she would garner no response, his mother was in prison, serving time for prostitution, so she simply slipped through and into the 'house'.There was no hallway to greet guest, just a small space that led to the rickety stairs, which Clara took two at a time, having to jump over some of the fully broken ones to reach the top landing, to the room she knew belonged to her friend.

Getting to the middle of three doors, all in equal disrepair, Clara once again forwent knocking and tore it open, having to blink a few times to get her eyes to adjust to the dim lighting filtering through the dusty and stained windows. When they did, However, they automatically focused on the mattress on the floor, the grey blanket that was nothing more that some threads miraculously held together by some chosen stitching, and the boy wrapped in said blanket. Even from her distance and lack of lighting, she could see him shivering, droplets of sweat on his brow, his honey brown curls sticking to his forehead and his flushed face. She was right to be worried, he was ill, and for people like them that could possibly be a death sentence all on its own.

Clara wasted no more time and made her way to the body on the floor, dropping to her knees, kicking up more dust, and placed her hand on his forehead. He was hotter than the stove on a summers day, so hot and flustered that Clara drew her hand back on instinct, only to force herself to place it back and brush away his sweaty and greasy hair from the burning skin. Only once the last curl was pushed back, did she notice he was staring at her with bleary eyes.

"You have tha' fever don't ya? I thought it was odd you weren't at our spot! Why didn't you get me when you started feeling ill? You need a doctor, My Ma can fetch one early nex-"

The boy, her best friend, gave a racking cough that trailed off into a wheezy chuckle as he whacked her hand away from his head, missing the first few times either due to exhaustion or lack of strength. Maybe even a combination of both. But he succeeded in the end, even managing to conjure up a cheeky smile to accompany it.

"If we went to the doctor every time we were sick or hurt, Mary would be out of house and coin, no matter how much we pick-pocket, we would never pay it back. It was only this last passed week that you got trapped halfway over that fence and nearly broke ya leg! Tha' fishmonger had to get you off with that hooked staff of his, by ya collar! You looked like those puppies down at the docks being carried off by its mother by the scruff of its neck. I ain't never seen anything so funny!"

He broke into another wet sounding cough, one she couldn't help but join in despite the dire situation, but she did manage to bump his arm gently, not willing a solid hit like she would if he was well, afraid she would somehow make him worse than he already was. Clara had befriended the older boy, a full five years older, when she had stuck up for his younger brother, and then got into a fight with the other lads that thought they could bully the both of them. They, he and she, had both shuffled home with bruises, cuts and smiling faces, a tight nit kin-ship soon followed after the bruises had paled to sickly yellows and greens.

"Well, tha' was your fault. I ain't as tall as you, or as old. You're the one who said, nah, promised, we could make it with that fat baker chasing us and your arms full of those hot buns and loaves."

He laughed once more but had to stop this time as breath did not come easy and his chest seized under the bout of coughing that took him. Clara clasped his hand tightly, only speaking once his coughing had subsided, needing him to hear her words and take them to heart, for she was petrified that if he didn't, if she turned away, he would go to the other world her mother told her about. The place with winged beings and golden gates.

"Don't go dying on me now... We still have so many lords and ladies to piss off."

His eyes fluttered open from their pained clenching and he sent her a warm smile, squeezing her hand in return.

"Aye. Can't leave that up to you, you'll get caught in no time. Ev'one knows I'm the smarts. So don't worry, if I die, it'll be holding ya hand. Promise."

Clara scoffed and yanked her hand away from his, this time pinching his bare forearm for good measure.

"Don't say tha'! My Ma says if you say stuff like tha' you invite tha' death upon you! I ain't ever holding your hand again!"

The boy, crumpled on the shoddy mattress and under that holey blanket, chuckled breathlessly, pinching her leg that was resting by his shoulder in payback.

"I only say stuff like tha' because you get angry so easily! Your face gets as red as your hair Fox!"

* * *

"What?"

Clara said as she pulled herself away from staring at the horizon, lost in the reminiscence of her own mind. She knew Vane had said something to her, but for the life of her, all she had heard was her ill friend back from all those years ago, another ghost to haunt her. Vane, who was sitting on the small bench, rowing in long languid movements and pulls of his arms, as it was his turn, jutted his chin at her face, eyes trailing the skin of her shoulder, where her shirt had fallen down slightly, her hands, face, and neck.

"I said you need a hat, or ten. I didn't know anyone who could get as red as you from the sun. You're nearly as red as your hair."

Clara scoffed and curled up further, pulling her knees up to her chest, back resting against the back of their little row boat. Reaching up, she yanked her top back into place, covering the blazing red skin there. That was definitely going to peel later on.

"Oh, fuck off."

Was her great witty retort. The sun must have been affecting her more than she thought. She was sweaty, sunburnt and in a foul mood. The likes of which that left her simmering over everything, no matter how little. The sun, lack of direction, the heat, that little knot in the boat that kept poking into her back, it all added onto her already pitiful temperament. Vane tugged hard on the oars, frowning over to her, but she was already staring back onto the horizon, her own scowl pulling at her lips and brows.

"You know, if we conversed like adults, this journey might not drag on for fucking ever. Maybe you should try it sometime Clara."

Clara swivelled her head back into Vane's direction, eyes flaring as her temper did. But she managed to keep a hold on it, knowing she wasn't really mad at Vane, but rather how last long night had morphed into an even longer and tiring morning of taking turns to row, boiling heat and catty remarks on both Vane's and Clara's side. The both of them were not in their best mood, or behaviour, to say the least. Their dwindling water ration, housed in a skin of some sort, didn't help matters either.

"Well, what the hell are we meant to talk about then? What your favourite colour is? What mine is? Or maybe we should converse about how we're fucking lost!"

Vane snapped, throwing the oars down to the bottom of the boat with a bang, running a hand down his face as he rested his elbows on his knee's, throwing Clara a look of pure warning. However, Clara was in no mood to take heed and only scowled deeper at him, as she reached up and swiped her hair away from her flushed face. If they weren't careful, one of them would explode, or worse, both would.

"You're sarcasm gets old real fast red. You know trust goes two ways. I know loyalty is important to me, what about you? We're only ever going to start trusting each other when you stop fighting everyone for no god-damned reason. So, it starts here. Tell me something about yourself, something you haven't told anyone before."

Clara went to tell him to fuck off once more, her natural reaction when questioned it seemed, when she forced her mouth to clamp back to being shut. When no words came forward on her behalf, Vane huffed, reached down and snagged the oars back up, rowing with a renewed vigour that smelt more of anger than of determination to get somewhere.

Clara sighed, hand flopping onto her propped up knee, fingers tapping away as she stared at the ripples the boat caused in the water as they sailed on. For everything, as much as she wanted to disagree and argue with Vane until she was blue in the face, she knew he was right. If they were to carry on, if she were to stay on the Ranger, if they were going to hide fucking gold together, she would need to open up, she would need his trust and he would need hers. So, without much thought, Clara said the first thing that came to her mind.

"Man-goose."

Vane stopped his rowing once more, this time still keeping his hands on the handles of the oars, eyeing her from the side with a cocked brow and a dust of humour in both his face and tone, his own sweat glistening on his tan skin.

"Do you mean Mango's?"

Clara nodded and while she thought, began to speak, a smile cracked along her lips, lighting her face up with a happy memory, one she had not thought of in a long time. In a very long time, so long, in fact, she had almost forgotten it like a hazy summer dream of a different life.

"Yeah, those. When I was younger, you couldn't keep me indoors for the life of you. I ran bloody wild around London. One time, me and Fanc-... My friend was out and about, doing less than stellar activities when we came across a shipment of them. He dared me I wouldn't be able to get on-board and steal one without one of the crew knowing or spotting me. God, did I try. For weeks, I tried everything. From begging, to darting and trying to grab one, to pretending I came from one of those convents from the friars, swearing black and blue I was a nun in training and if they didn't give me one, god would smite them all down in fiery fury. At one point, I even hit one of the sailors in the face with one of the fish from the fish market down the road I had nabbed earlier on in the day."

Clara laughed full heartedly as she remembered the cod leaving a red mark on the poor young sailors face. When Clara got angry, which was more often than she would like, she tended to get violent. But god, back in those days, back when she had gave it her all for that fruit, did she try her damned hardest for something so little.

Yet, looking back, it wasn't that little piece of foreign fruit that had driven her on so desperately. It was her pride. If she had have just gotten her hands on that Man-goose... Mango, it meant she was good at something. It was so different too, something she had never seen before, so exotic. It was a piece of a different land, a different life, a different world so far away from dingy London, and she wanted to covet it. She had dreamed of them coming from dragons nests, or given to the sailors of that ship by pearl encrusted mermaids. For those few days she had tried to get her hands on one, she was a different person, it took her away from her real life, that of a street kid in dank England's underbelly. Vane's chuckle brought her back to earth with a snap and a bang.

"Did you ever get one?"

Clara's smile crumbled at the edges, giving a slow shake of her head disappointedly. Her fingers stopped their tapping, choosing now to clench and grapple with the thin fabric of her trousers.

"No. By the time I actually managed to get passed the crew and to the boxes that held them, they had been moved. Only one was left, sagging to the floor as it had fully rotted, flies buzzing around it."

She remembered how sad she had been, dragon's eggs didn't rot, mermaids gifts didn't come with flies, and so, once again, a young Clara had been brought tumbling back down to earth. She had spent all her time, all her energy, on a bloody piece of fruit, on what? The run of her imagination and the prodding of her good-natured friend?

"So, you never won the dare. I bet that didn't sit well with you."

Clara let the jab go, knowing Vane was right, that it did fracture into her disappointment that day. However, her smile came back full force as she remembered what had transpired after the underwhelming discovery of that day, when she spoke, bright eyes staring at Vane, shoulders shaking with giggles and chuckles, she told him.

"Oh no. I picked up that rotten fruit, brought it all the way back to the port were my friend was, hiding behind some crates and barrels, and chucked it at his head. Never seen someone jump into the port waters as fast as he did when the flies wouldn't stop following his head around like he was that man-goose... Mango as he ran around in circles, trying to wipe the splatters and chunks off. He never dared me to do anything after that day."

Vane joined in with her laughter, shaking his head as he looked down at his lap. However, when their laughter died like it inevitably had to, he gave her a searching look, smile still there. That being said, when he spoke, hers did fall.

"See? Was that so hard? Things don't always have to be an uphill battle with you. So, why don't you like to be called Fox? Old lovers nickname?"

Clara shut downed, clammed up, whatever you wanted to call it and jerkily stood up on the boat, making her way to Vane as she spoke, trying to get away from that conversation.

"Times up. My time to row. Take a break."

She knew she was pushing Vane away, the opposite of what he wanted by getting them to talk in the first place, but she didn't want to talk about it and that would always be her first reaction when that nickname cropped up. Push back, lock up.

Vane scowled at her, but Clara refused to meet his eye, instead choosing to stare pointedly at the oars. He huffed, dropped them and marched over to what used to be her spot, plopping down and proceeding to turn his back to her. Well, as much as the small space of the row boat allowed him and his broad and tall frame to. Clara, for some strange reason, felt bad. More than bad. So, despite her protests and biting her tongue a few times, as she sat down and rowed, looking at the sea once more, Clara whispered the answer, the non-existent breeze carrying it to Vane, otherwise, she was sure he wouldn't have heard her with how quiet she spoke it.

"My friend, the one I just told you about? He used to call it me. It was my first nickname. He... He was like a brother to me. He was a brother to me in all but last name and blood. Then he was gone."

Vane turned around to face her slowly, something glimmering in the back of his eyes, and with one look in them, Clara had to turn away.

"Gone? He died?"

Swallowing deeply, feeling the emotion of loss and unsurety bubbling up her throat, Clara gave a non-committal shrug. The most she could muster.

"Don't have a fucking clue. One day he was there, running the streets with me, then he was gone like he was never there, no goodbye, nowhere to be found. He could be dead for all I know. Long dead and nothing but dust in some shallow grave back in London."

Clara forced herself to look into Vane's eyes and was thankful she did. Because now she could name that glimmer flickering in the back of metal grey and stormy ocean blue. Understanding. He understood. And that... That meant quiet a bit to her right then.

"Sometimes, It's better not to know."

Clara chuckled, having come to that conclusion a few days ago. Especially after everything she had gone through since setting foot off from Captain Ludford's ship. To Clara, it seems, the less knowledgeable you are, the safer you are. And even if her mind sometimes wondered to were that boy was, her brother in all intents and purposes, she cuts that question off as soon as it passes her mind now, scared of actually finding out the answer. For she had questioned who her father was for most of her life, and look how that turned out. And if she forced herself not to be curious, if she played ignorant, she could pretend he was alive and well, still running those back streets with her like he does in her mind. With a sardonic smile, Clara agreed with Vane.

"Oh, I know that now."

* * *

Vane and Clara had been rowing all morn, continuing on as the sun rose and then rested right above them, bearings its heavy heat upon them in all its glory. All they had seen, apart from each other, was blue skies and even bluer waters. Vane was once again rowing, them having swapped over another two times after Clara had told Vane about her nickname, he would stop every few seconds, scribble something down with a nub of a pencil on a thin sheet of paper, look at his open compass, then scribble some more and then set off rowing again. Clara could almost pinpoint the exact time he would reach to his ear for the pencil.

"Do you know where we're heading? Even the faintest of ideas of what continent we're rowing towards?"

Vane stopped his writing, reached down, dipping behind him to under the bench and threw something heavy and long her way. Clara caught it just in time, before it zoomed past her shoulder and sank into the sea, to be never seen again. Twirling the spyglass around her hands, looking at the intricate brass and wood decoration, Clara listened as Vane talked as he scanned through what he had written on his little piece of paper.

"No, I don't. However, if we're lost while we find the place, what hope do the other pirates or Spanish have of discovering it?"

Clara could not argue with his point, however illogical and redundant it seemed to her. After all, how were they meant to find a place, if they were lost? Or how could they ever dream of re-finding it again once they left it? Instead of complaining, Clara decided to actually try and help out, god knows were they would end up if it was just Vane who was doing all the tasks. Flicking the spyglass open, Clara took a long hard and arduous look at the surrounding horizon, hoping to see a flash of green or gold or even shitty brown. Anything to tell them they were near land. When she saw nothing, she slammed the spyglass shut, dropped it to her side and grumbled her worries to a still writing Vane.

"Well, if we don't find land soon, I'm sure the other pirates and Spanish will not find our bloated corpses either."

Vane grunted, ignoring her. But he did bend down, riffling through his jacket that he had taken off, for another piece of paper. Clara jolted up from her slouched position, grasping at the rim of the row boat as she looked at the space Vane's head had been blocking, licking her chapped lips. She hoped she wasn't hallucinating due to heatstroke. Scrambling for the spyglass, she fiddly flicked it open and peeped through the glass lens, laughing loudly, she pulled the spyglass away from her face, and jostled Vane's shoulder, pointing to what she had seen and had her so excited.

"Land!"

Vane's hair, the bottom half that was loose, nearly whipped her in the face with how fast he turned to look, rushing for the oars once he spotted what she had, rowing with broad and strong strokes. Clara couldn't sit still, not now she had seen land! Coming to a shaky stand, Clara dove passed Vane and stood on the edge of the boat, looking, watching, waiting in wonder as they approached this new and brilliant slice of land.

"Trust Clara, I told you we would be fine. Now we just have to scout this island out, see if there're any unsavoury sides to it."

As they rowed closer, for what felt like hours to Clara who was swept up in taking in the oasis in the middle of the sea, when the stretch of the hidden island became all they could see from turning their heads left and right, Vane unceremoniously dropped the oars, swung out of the boat, landing in the sea that jumped up his thighs with a big splash, and began pushing the boat further onto the beach. Clara snapped to and, a lot less gracefully then Vane, jumped out too into the shallow glittering water and helped push it inland, almost falling over as the row boat dug into the sand and docked itself.

Walking away from the boat, and onto the beach, away from Vane a few steps, feet squelching in her leather boots due to the sea water, Clara looked around her with wide eyes. There was a thin line of sandy beach that gave way to dense jungle and forest, so dense you couldn't see further than a foot in from the tree-line. Everything... Everything was so green.

"I never knew there could be so much green in one place. I mean, I see it at Nassau, but with the buildings, it still reminds me of London. Here, however, here is so foreign. So..."

"Beautiful..."

Clara's head snapped to her left, taking in Vane's towering figure, idly wondering when he had come to a stop at her side. His face was once again unreadable, not because his guards had slammed down, but because she just couldn't read it. Again. So, she grinned, nodding at his choice of words, red curls bouncing everywhere. Vane pulled himself too, somehow standing taller and marched off, beckoning her to follow with a wave of his hand, speaking before Clara even started to follow his path.

"We need to get a move on, while we still have daylight to guide our search. We camp on the beach tonight, and if this place suits our needs, we row home for Nassau early morning."

Clara jogged to catch up, feet sinking and kicking up sand as she went, spinning around, trying to take in as much as she humanly could of this marvellous island so different from anything she had seen before. She nodded her agreement, but she knew right then, under the daze of the beauty around her, she would have agreed to anything asked of her.

Clara saw a beautiful flower, just on the edge of the jungle, large petals spread open, larger than a dinner plate, in a mirage of bright pinks and sunny yellows. Running over to it, which wasn't that far, Clara bent down and looked closer, face nearly pressed into the flower, hand creeping up about to finger its velvety petals. A large and rough hand, wrist encased in leather bands and arm guards, pulled her fingertips away in time. Clara jerked up to look at Vane dead in the face, taken aback.

"I wouldn't do that If I were you. I've seen those plants before, they have a nasty poison to them. Nearly killed two of my men who decided to pick them once."

Clara pulled away, thinking over what she had just been told, and really she should have seen it. For isn't that the way of nature, no, the world? The beautiful things always hurt the most, always held that extra punch, always came with a dash of poison. Straightening herself out, focusing on the task at hand rather than her curiosity and wonder, Clara gave a nod and followed Vane as he pushed into the tightly compact trees and foliage, drawing his cutlass to swipe through anything too dense. He reached behind him, to the back of his belt, unsheathed a large dagger and handed it to her, and Clara readily took it, feeling all the better to be armed with at least something.

"Have you seen many places such as this? How many countries have you seen?"

They had gotten a few good feet in when Vane had to begin swinging his sword to cut through hanging vines and billowing plants that blocked their way. And after a few swings, cutting down the same thing, curving their path through the greenest plants Clara had ever seen, he had to wipe at his brow with the back of his hand, sweat glistening and rolling there, threatening to block his vision. They may not have been walking long, but with the dense forest and blistering heat, they could still feel the burn. And only after they had gotten through the third patch they needed to cut down, did he answer her question. For, if he needed her to trust him, and if as he said, trust was a two-way street, then surely she deserved to know the man she would call Captain from now on, the person she would place her life in the hands of.

"Many. I've seen countries and islands where the locals wear nothing but paint. I've been to countries where their buildings are higher than fifty men standing on each other's shoulders. I've even been to France with a bounty on my head."

Clara stalled from helping him cut the vines, even though he was doing the brunt of the work, and stared incredulously at him.

"France? I heard they spoke English backwards there, and even the poorest of ladies smelt of lavender and are prettier than a rose, that the men lived on chivalry and honour. They even bake these things called croissants. I tried to make them once, but it just turned into a lump of uncooked dough. "

Vane chuckled as he pushed through a bush bigger than any man she had seen, with thorns the size of daggers themselves, holding them back with his arm, letting her pass without incident or injury.

"Sailor's tales I'm afraid. Nothing more than lads speaking of things they know nothing of. France, England, Nassau, here, they're all the same. Visit one, visit them all."

Clara stopped smiling, stopped looking around herself in her still childish amazement as she came to the other side of the bush, Vane came through and turned around to face her when he realized she wasn't following him, cocking his head to the side in silent inquisitiveness. She... She didn't believe that. Not what he said, for of course sailors spun the best stories, but his simple oath of everywhere being the same. Surely he couldn't believe it either? But then she thought she got the first real glimpse of the real Vane. She saw Charles instead of Captain Vane, the brutish and bloodthirsty pirate Captain, and she understood. Understood his actions, his choices since she had known him, and maybe even more. Because in that moment, she had a revelation about him, a startling but quiet discovery that maybe even he, himself had not seen before.

"I don't believe that for a second. I think you've grown weary, maybe even bored and that is why you leaped onto my half-formed plan in the beginning, when you should not have trusted me let alone thought me sane. It was something new to do, something else to uncover. You feel complacent in your authority and thirst for something new. For no matter how many decades I could live for, nothing, I think, could look like this island, could be anything similar to its untamed wonder. Nothing. So, yes, maybe I should trust you, for you have proven I should, but mayhaps, you should try seeing things through my eyes, take and breath them in like I do, because I've proven too, that I see things differently."

Vane looked deeply into her eyes, trying to find the lie there, but all he could see, all he could possibly see was her earnest honesty. For now, she knew him more than he was likely comfortable with. Up until Clara had landed on Nassau, before they started their plans and schemes, Vane, the Captain Charles Vane of the Ranger, had been bored. Then, against all odds that Clara believed were there, he offered her his hand, sly smile that belonged more on a wolf than a human gracing his face.

"You trust me, I try and see through your eyes."

Clara didn't need to think twice, nodding, accepting the deal he had put on the table. Looking around her, at the tall trees she could see no top to, to the plants of all kinds surrounding her, enclosing in on her, she too grinned and snatched up his hand, tugging him in a different direction then he had been planning on taking them, wincing slightly when the pain in her ribs flared up, but pushing the wince and pain down before it could be taken notice of.

"And as for that, we should go this way, not that way."

Clara tugged Vane along, the man begrudgingly following her, but following all the same.

"Why?"

Clara looked back over she shoulder at him, grinning with deep dimples as they dipped, dodged and pushed through the jungle.

"Because, lesson one of seeing, the trees are more flowery this way, a hint more greener!"

The trees got denser, but they pushed through, then, after battling through a rather congregated bunch of stubborn fauna, the space opened up dramatically and Clara sucked in a deep breath, eyes twinkling like stars at the sight that greeted her on the other side of the trees they had fought through.

"That means fresh water..."

There was a mountain, grey rocks peeking out from the green bushes and trees sprouting off from it, however, the tall formation was cleaved in two by a rushing and thick waterfall, the spray gushing down and filtering into a deep blue lagoon, the type of blue that would put any sapphire to shame. The structure was so tall, so grand, that Clara believed if she got to the top of the mountain, if she reached up, she would be able to touch heavens clouds. The sound of the waterfall, the little white mists that floated to the lagoon tinkled and rang like bells. This was all housed in a dip of the land, the same grey rocks that formed the mountain breaking up the green soil they were on around the lagoon, like a nature made fountain solely for their enjoyment. The eye widening scene was all topped off with the sun above their heads, casting and painting everything in gold dust.

Vane strolled forward, a tug on her hand made Clara realize their hands were still grasped together , but in her wonder, she couldn't bring herself to let go, afraid if she let go, somehow she would be transported back to London, all this turning out to be nothing but a glitch in her imagination or a day dream. Vane stared at the lagoon too, speaking in a gruff but glazed voice, almost as if he was as dazed as she.

"I think, this once, I see things truly like you do."

Clara laughed, the noise filled with amazement and wonder, and everything in between. Finally letting go of Vane's hand, Clara bolted for the lagoon, sliding down and through the dip in the land as she came to a blundering halt, staring at the deep waters and the white spray from the waterfall. Staring at all the beauty around her.

* * *

Clara sat perched on one of the jagged rocks surrounding the lagoon, bare feet dangling off the edge and sliding into the water as she idly kicked them back and forth, trousers rolled up to her knees, the water tickling in between her toes, her boots laying forgotten, drying off near a bush of little white flowers behind her.

Vane had given them a break and had disappeared behind one of the taller jutting rocks. At some point, she had thought she had heard a splash, but when she had looked up, he was gone and nowhere to be seen. She didn't worry, knowing he was most likely taking a dip in the lagoon, cooling off, swimming around somewhere. And if not, if he had ditched her, then she didn't feel so bad about the place she had been left in, for she thought she could happily live out the end of her days here, under the sun and in this model of Eden. So while he was swimming around or lurking in the jungle, staying away from her, Clara would rest her aching feet and take a breather, feeling in the best mood since leaving London.

Just as he right leg was kicking out into the water, sinking under the surface, Clara felt something wrap around her ankle, tugging harshly on her leg. She wasn't afraid to admit and own up to the undignified scream that left her lips, nor her mad dash to scrabble with the rock she was on, desperately trying to find purchase and not end up in the lagoon. However, in her frantic movements, her ribs flared up in pain, but compared to the prospect of drowning, Clara adamantly pushed that aside for clinging to the rock with everything she had. Her heart was still erratically beating in the cage of her chest as she glanced down and saw a wet Vane at her feet, sans shirt, grinning up at her.

"What are you doing up there? I ain't giving you a clean set of clothes if you aren't going to wash off first. What, not used to not having porcelain bath princess? Afraid of the little water?"

Clara scoffed and snarled at Vane, yanking her foot and ankle out of his loose grip. Back home, back in her little bakery that she couldn't picture as detailed as she could before with each passing day, she did remember the little barrel that had originally held gin. She and Mary had sawn it in half and used the bottom half as a wash basin, for it was not big enough for either of them to clamber in.

"I'm not afraid. And I'm not getting in there."

Vane backed up, to small of a distance to calm Clara any, and tread water as he stared up at her, little ripples dancing around him.

"Why the hell not?"

Clara grimaced, knowing she would have to tell him yet another of her weakness's, to try and get out from ending her life right now. Drowning was such a terrible way to go. It also felt deeply wrong, letting someone as obviously strong, world-wise and experienced as Vane know how... Inadequate she was, how she lacked so many things. She couldn't read, she couldn't write, she couldn't swim, she couldn't do a lot of things. Begrudgingly she whispered her answer, only for Vane to swim closer once more.

"What?"

"I said I can't swim!"

Vane let out a gruff laugh, only for it to die down and stutter to death as he realized she was being perfectly honest and not joking.

"You can't swim... And you bloody agreed to become a pirate, a sailor? What the fuck were you thinking?"

Vane was lucky, and maybe she was too, that she didn't have a blunt object near her or on hand to lob at his head.

"I'm so fucking sorry! A baker has no need to learn to fucking swim alright!"

Vane sobered up, looking at her with that unreadable look she loathed so damned much. Clara wanted nothing more than to run back into the forest and forget Vane even existed at this point.

"Well, no time like the present to learn I suppose. Jump In, lesson seven is beginning."

Clara shook her head, pulling her legs up further onto the ledge, away from the lagoon and any attempt Vane might try to drag her in kicking and screaming.

"I told you, I'd drown!"

Vane huffed and growled one word, trying to get her compliance.

"Trust."

Clara shook her head, more violently this time, not believing she was about to do this. But, if she was going to be spending a majority of her time on a ship, surely swimming could come in handy if she ever tumbled overboard, or some bastard like Vane thought to push her off said ship. So, with too many reservations and doubts to count, she crept towards the edge, more like haphazardly shuffled her way there, hands braced on the edge of the rocks, the stone digging into the soft flesh of her palms at her tight hold, readying to push herself off, but held back from doing such when she saw how deep the water was. Vane, however, swam backward, making her some room to dive into, but sticking close enough to drag her out, hopefully, if she started flailing.

"Just jump. I'll catch you."

Clara took one last deep breath, held it, and pushed off from the ledge, falling into the water below.

Clara felt the cool waters rush around her, swallowing her up like a gaping mouth of a giant, sinking deeper into the rich blue as it sparkled around her, the light of the sun illuminating the first few feet of the top of the water, making the blue contrast with the starkness red of her hair as it floated around her like flames from a fire. Then she felt something, Vane's hands, slide and grip one of her arms, pulling and tugging her to the surface and as Clara broke it, she let go of the breath she was holding and gulped in another. Not because she was afraid, but because she had actually done it, she had dove off the rock and into the water, with nothing but Vane's words to back her up. She was... She was proud of herself.

"Grab my other hand, follow my movements and you'll be swimming in no time. Kick your legs, never keep them still... Yeah like that, a bit faster and one after the other... Good."

Vane let go of her arm, backing away a bit as he grabbed her hand, and then grabbed her other one, palms flushed together as their fingers intertwined and locked into place. Still treading water, he led her further into the deep lagoon, towards the middle, Clara on her stomach, kicking as he told her to and he on his back in the rippling water, side by side, hands still clasped, interlocked, as he taught her something she never thought she would be brave enough to learn, or have anyone willing to teach her.

* * *

Vane was right, which he seemed to be often enough, in no time she was swimming by herself. Of course, after a few shaky starts of nearly sinking when Vane had let go, testing her, but she was now on her own, swimming like she had known how to do it all along. Vane was near the waterfall, just off to the side, the impressive sight to his back as he called over to her.

"See, you've got it. Now get over here, so we can get out and get changed, before night hits us."

Clara swam over, only faltering once in her movements, and followed Vane to a ledge near the edge of the waterfall he was by, sloping enough to lead them out of the lagoon safely without having to climb out on wet stone. Only, as Vane was heaving himself up, thankfully still wearing his leather trousers even if his top was missing, making Clara's cheeks heat up in what she hoped, or forced herself to think of as anger, something caught her eye behind the waterfall as she turned her head away from Vane's glistening back. Something dark and black, something that didn't belong with the lush greens, bright flowers, or deep blue waters.

"What is that?"

Vane let himself fall back into the water and pivoted to face her, but she' was looking at the waterfall with searching eyes. He did the same, but could not see what she did from his angle, in fact, Clara thought you could only see what she was seeing from this exact place she was swimming in. It was hidden, and even from her vantage point, she could not fully see it.

"What is what?"

Clara ignored Vane's question and swam over to the waterfall, the mist spraying in her already wet hair and face.

"That... Behind the waterfall..."

Vane followed her, but got there faster than she did, with his stronger strides and strokes. When he was beside her, bare chest nearly brushing her shoulder, he squinted as he looked through the flowing water that was disturbing and morphing the image of the rocks behind it.

"Only one way to find out."

Vane ducked like a swan would in a lake and disappeared into the water, swimming under the waterfall . Clara tried the same move but ended up spluttering out water she had accidentally swallowed and simply paddling through the flowing rivets of water falling down on her. Once she was on the other side of the water barrier, bobbing slightly in the torrents and small waves the waterfall created, Clara looked up, to were Vane was staring.

"Is that what I think it is?"

Vane nodded, wet hair clinging to his broad shoulders and back, flaring out when it dipped into the water around him. He swam over to what looked liked a steep set of rough stones that resembled ragged stairs that led up to the hole in the rock-face that could be nothing but a large cave perfectly hidden by a waterfall of all things. Clara followed, heaving herself up sloppily, wincing when her ribs throbbed. Though nearly slipping on the wet stone at one point, she braced herself and followed Vane up the winding rocks to the cave.

Vane reached the top first and stepped slightly into the cave, but went no further into the inky blackness. Clara stopped at the highest step, staring into the blackness, clinging onto the rock curve of the entrance.

"This is it Vane. This is were we should hide the gold. Its perfect. No one knows of this island, let alone expecting us to put insurmountable riches in a cave hidden by a waterfall of all things."

Vane turned around to face her, looking over his partially turned shoulder, the darkness of the cave obscuring one side of his face.

"I think you're right."

Clara smiled brilliantly and laughed heartily, only to cringe at the twinge in her side flaring up. The swimming she had done having not helped the soreness at all, only aggravating it. She automatically reached down and clutched at it, trying to stem the pain radiating out, forgetting she was being watched by Vane of all people. The one man she thought could point out a needle from a hay-stack with just one glance.

Glancing up, Clara saw Vane staring at her hand that was grasping at her ribs. Before she could say or do anything, blow the thing off with some silly excuse he would likely not believe anyway, he stormed over and took her hand away from her side harshly. His other hand reached down and began peeling her wet shirt off her heated skin and lifting it up slightly, just enough, to see the blue, purple and deep green bruise blooming on her bottom ribs. His hand winded and clenched on her shirt, threatening to tear her shirt at the seams.

"That was me wasn't it... Back in that alleyway when I... When I kicked your ribs..."

Clara pulled her shirt free and away, pinning it back down to her hips with a tight fist. She didn't like the edge to his tone, something simmering underneath, wanting it to vanish from his normally straight to the point and gravelly tone. Maybe it was because he was seeing another one of her weakness, again, and after such a short time of seeing one just half hour before.

"It's nothing. It'll be healed in no time. You should have seen what I did to myself when I was a kid..."

Vane walked backwards and away from her, the darkness separating them irrevocably, still staring at her ribs.

"Sometimes I forget how small you are..."

Vane then seemed to snap out of it, whatever that was dragging him down, and she thought she saw the guards in his eyes slam up, his face becoming distant, hate taking hold of his eyes, his voice monotone and leaving no room for argument. He hated her. Hated her for being weak. That much was, she believed, clear by the heat in his eyes and the blaze of cindering fire to his tone.

"We'll camp at the lagoon, I'm going to hunt for food. If you're going to explore, be back at this spot before night fully hits, because we set out as soon as the sun rises again. If you want to change, the satchel is by your boots... Keep your dagger with you."

Then Vane strolled forward, towards the entrance of the cave, and jumped, landing streamline into the water and swimming off, leaving Clara at the entrance of their new found hiding spot, wet, confused, hurt, both physically and confusingly emotionally, something she couldn't tell you why, and alone. Big arrogant fucker...

* * *

Clara had wasted time by drying off on the rocks, changing into her new clothes, which consisted of a white cotton top, tighter than she would normally wear, billowy sleeves ending at her elbows in cuffs, instead of her finger knuckles like her other top. A thick belt that held a holster for her own dagger, which she slot into place. A tan pair of leather trousers, that too were tighter than she would ever normally wear and a worn blue leather bodice waistcoat, that looked like it was the top part of a dress, only with the corset bones taken out. It too was tight, but Clara forgave and actually preferred this for once, as the added pressure helped lessen the pain in her ribs. She had even taken the time to plait her hair into a long braid, something Mary had called a French braid, and tied it off with a spare cord of leather she had found in the satchel, finished off with her own pair of leather boots she had since Captain Ludford's ship.

All in all, staring at her reflection in the lagoon water after finishing getting changed, wild hair curly from the heat and letting the sun dry it off, Clara looked, for once, like she actually belonged on a ship from Nassau. She looked like a pirate instead of a lost child.

Clara wasted time because she thought, whatever Vane's problem was with her this time, she would give him some time to cool down and figure it himself, rather than facing him and likely prodding the problem into something bigger that, with her and Vane, would almost definitely end up with fists and kicks. So when the stars started to show above her head, another wonder to gawk at, when her feet grew tired of wondering around, Clara made her way to the orange flare flickering on the other side of the lagoon, a small fire she knew Vane had set up.

Coming to the edge of camp-fire, just in the boundary of its light, Clara saw Vane on his side, looking for all the world fast asleep, using the satchel as a pillow, his clothed back to her on the other side of the fire she had walked close to. Glancing down at 'her' side, she saw he had placed his old shirt, having changed like she had, folded on the side she was standing on, his jacket laying there for her to use as a pillow and blanket, folded too.

"Vane... Vane, are you awake?"

Clara sighed heavily when she got no answer. Plopping down onto her spot, she ignored the mysterious meet on skewers left to be kept warm by the fire, not feeling an ounce of hunger, and decided to get an early night if they were rowing back to Nassau tomorrow, and having to deal with whatever mood Vane was in when sunlight did grace the sky.

Picking up the jacket, Clara unfolded it and nearly cursed loudly when something round and large bounced out of its clothe prison and onto her knee. Chucking the jacket aside, Clara plucked up the thing that had hit her and nearly chucked it as far as she could, in a foul mood, when her eyes and mind finally caught up to what she was holding, what Vane had gotten her, what was soft and smooth in her palm, what he had wrapped in his own jacket for her to find like one would with an Easter egg.

A mango.

Somehow, some way, Vane, that beautiful arrogant, whirlwind of a bastard had found her a mango, and had thought enough of her to bring her one back. He might not actually hate her very being. She felt like crying as she clutched at that simple fruit that meant more to her than most things, more to her than many other people. It wasn't a fruit to her then and there, it was a symbol, a sign of lost childhood dreams, of crushed hopes, of things she had to give up when Mary became ill, how she lost some of herself in caring and rushing around the bakery, serving those snotty Lords and Ladies, those drunk patrons, and the few nice workers who popped in when they actually had money to spare.

Vane... Vane had knowingly or unknowingly given her them all back, those dreams, those hopes of a better life, of adventure, that little piece of herself. Did he know what he had done, or was it all a happy coincidence of fate, for once the omniscient thing smiling down on her instead of laughing as it threw things her way?

Clara didn't know what to do, what to say. Was a thank you appropriate in this regard? However, that was all pushed away when Vane jerked into action just as a loose branch on the floor crunched, shattering the silence of the crackling fire. He pulled his hand out from under his head and makeshift pillow, eyes wide without a hint of sleep glazing them, pulling a cocked Flint gun with it, looking and aiming just over her shoulder, behind her at the shadows.

Slowly, dazedly, Clara turned around and faced what was behind her. Obscured by shadows, but coming into focus by the flickering of the flames. Clara saw a man, followed by three others. All in the same apparel, in tatty clothing, wooden beaded necklaces dangling from their necks, decadently dark skin shining in the fires flames and starlight.

The leader, the one closest to her, was holding a long sharp-pointed spear, aimed right at them, face twisted in a snarl as he watched them both, his English heavily accented and broken, but crystal clear in the dark night in its anger and resolute meaning of unwelcome.

"What are you doing on our land! What are you doing on Cocos Island!"

Of course, Clara thought, when fate smiled down upon you... It was normally seconds prior to a mad laugh and a lightening bolt aimed at your skull.

* * *

 **NEXT CHAPTER:** They've been through the fight to get to the island, now it's time for the fight to get off the island... With a hiding place secured... I smell trouble...

 **A.N:** Yet again, this chapter has gotten away with me, as I had originally planned for the whole island to be one chapter, so instead, I've had to split it in two. I'm sorry, honestly, I try to condense as much as I can, but sometimes, especially with this story, I just keep typing. So, sorry if long chapters aren't your thing, at this point, I think you're just going to have to put up with them, for no matter how hard I try, they always end up hitting the higher word rate then not.

I'm not too sure about **Vane this chapter** , I'm afraid I've might of fallen on the side of OOC with him on this chapter :/. If that is the case, I'm sorry, I'm trying to bring them closer together and might of pulled Vane out of character a little. Please excuse it, I promise I'll try harder to keep Vane as Vane in later chapters. I hope this hasn't bugged anybody off the story from reading it further, I have written his lines and reactions about four times now, and I'm still not happy with it, like Silver in the beginning of this fic. Oh, well, I tried. XD

 **A HUGE THANK YOU** , bigger than I can actually write, to everyone who has followed, favourited and reviewed. It means a lot to someone who was dubious of posting this story in the first place, so really, thank you. Keep 'em coming though, they brighten up my day ;) Without further ado, one last THANK YOU and onto the chapter notes, which has some questions, answers and hints for what is to come. :) - **GoWithTheFlo20**

 **CHAPTER NOTES:**

 **What the hell is Cocos Island?**

Cocos island is a real place, and the actual island where the Lima prize was hidden by pirates. As I said, I'm blending more of real life in this fic and thought this would be the perfect place for Vane and Clara to stumble upon. The story goes, the Spanish had gained a lot of gold and wealth from their ransacking of the Inca empire back in the 15 hundreds. When a rebellion broke out, the Spanish paid an English captain to take the gold and sail with it, keeping it safe from the rebels. The British captain William Thompson, who sailed the Mary Dear, where I originally got Mary Summerfields name from, obviously fell to temptation and took the gold, supposedly hiding it on Cocos island. However, the Spanish did catch up, executed all of his crew apart from him and his first mate, however, they only spared Thompson and the first mate because they promised to point out where they hid the gold. When they got to Cocos island, the legend is Thompson and his first mate ran into the jungle and was never seen again, either making off with the gold, leading the Spanish to the wrong Island, or dying in the jungle. Despite all this, treasure hunts have happened throughout history to find the gold, even in the 19th century. The horde, which supposedly housed "solid-gold, gem-encrusted, life-size image of the Virgin Mary,", with "113 gold religious statues... 200 chests of jewels; 273 swords with jewelled hilts; 1,000 diamonds; solid gold crowns; 150 chalices; and hundreds of gold and silver bars."

The island does have waterfalls too, but I don't know about Lagoons or caves. However, I'm flashing my creative licence here, as what is a pirate story without a lagoon or a cave? As for natives, I'm not sure either, but I can't say much or next chapter is ruined, but I'm sure most of you guess who they are anyway. :)

 **Smut?**

With an overwhelming yes, and no No's, you guys are going to get smut! However, it will only come when I think the time is right for it to happen, when it fits the circumstances and the characters themselves, so please don't expect Clara to jump into bed with either Vane or Silver in the next chapter. I have a rough Idea of where its going to happen, and its soon-ish, but a little while yet, however the build up is happening, even in this chapter. So please be patient. :)

 **Will Clara betray Vane? Or Rackham or Bonny?**

I'm not going to give a solid yes or no answer to this but I will explain Clara's character a bit more and quote one of my early Chapter notes, because, really, its how you readers see and view Clara that is important, not me. "Clara is extremely loyal to the few who make it into her heart.".

At the moment, the best way I can describe how Clara sees Vane is as an infection. Something invading and taking control. Her reactions to him, in her mind, is against her will and her better judgement.

Clara, while intellectually and logical strong, is so extremely docile and stupid when it comes to her own emotions and feelings. Which I find balances her out as a character, for she is human, and as human, has weaknesses too, like her temper. She's the type of person, in my mind, to not know she's in love unless she lost it, or it bit her in the face. So while she sees her growing feelings as a repeated lapse in judgement, it's not because it is, but because she can't name her own feelings herself. Often misconstruing attraction, like many times before with Vane, as down right anger. So, with Vane especially, she puts the wrong labels on the wrong emotions, her logic, knowing how volatile and dangerous Vane can be, warring with her developing feelings of loyalty, attraction, and someone she can rely on, miss labelling them as awareness and control, anger and a tangible weakness someone could exploit.

Is she always going to be this emotionally blind? Of course not, its part of her character development, she will figure it out. The real question is will she have the guts to act, or the time to? Or will something happen to the both of them to fracture them apart before it can come to fruition? Those are answers I'm not giving away, as it will ruin the story. :)

 **Rackham/OC?**

Chapter one is in the works and should be out by chapter twenty of this one, maybe even sooner if I can find the time. :)

 **Vane/Clara, Silver/Clara, Vane/Clara/Silver, how does that work?**

Only a little hint here, as I don't want to give too much away. The way I see it, **Silver/Clara** is built on understanding, seeing eye to eye and slow build up to a relationship, Silver is, once Clara gets into stride, the only one who would and could keep up with her mentally and her planning. One that blooms slowly but is a hell of strong when it does grow. On the opposite end of the spectrum is **Vane/Clara** , its explosive, fiery, often ending in argument and heated looks. Its fast and hard, like that eminem song, what happens when a tornado meets a volcano? They don't see eye to eye, but that's the beauty of them, as they sort of complete each other in a way. **Vane/Clara/Silver?** Nothing, you're just going to have to read and find out. My lips are sealed!

 **Ned Low? What's he got to do with Clara?**

I really can't say more then I already have. But he does link into Clara's grand scheme, her arc and there is a connection between the two. At this point, after this chapter, I wouldn't be surprised if most of you know what that connection is. Ned and Clara have grown up in very, VERY similar circumstances, only because of this, it's changed how they see the world and people around them, making one take a right and the other take a left sort of thing. It's going to be a ride and a half, and ends a bit sadly really. (Sad in my eyes, some of you may like it.)

 **When is Clara going to bond with Flint? Will we see Miranda again?**

Yes to both. Bonding time is coming when they go for the Urca and Miranda, Clara and Miranda have their time when Ned Low comes into play, and even a bit before that, but you'll just have to wait.

Well, until next time, either Wednesday or next Sunday, keep being the Beautiful people you are! -GoWithTheFlo20


	15. We Stand As One

Chapter fifteen- We Stand As One.

 **Trigger warning:** This chapter contains triggering content, if easily triggered, please stop reading, or skip the first segment to the line break.

* * *

That bright orange ball that many knew and called the sun was just climbing into the sky by the time Vane, Clara and the four men, all holding spears, prodding the two in the back in urging, finally broke through the thick jungle and came to the place they had been taking Clara and Vane. Outnumbered in a land they knew not of, with one flintlock gun, a cutlass and a dagger, Vane and Clara had surrendered begrudgingly, had their weapons taken from them, searched, hands shackled and then shoved and poked in the direction the men had taken them, all the while the four men whispered amongst themselves in a language Clara had never heard before, let alone hope she could decipher the meaning between the rolls of tongue and click of consonants.

The place they were taken was like a town of sorts, cabins and huts made from forest leaves and wooden logs, a small stream of fresh water splitting the village in half. Men, women and children walked around, meandering through their daily chores, only to scowl and snarl at the sight of Clara and Vane. And once they were lead up a wooden bridge, to a raised platform, caged in dried bamboo bars, did Clara's gut fully sink into the ground. They weren't the only trespassers on Cocos island it seemed, as the makeshift prison was pretty full with starved, dirty and skeletal men. Their outlook of getting off this island was looking grimmer every passing second.

Vane was the first to be pushed into one of the crowded cages with a spear head at his back and a shove to his shoulders. He stumbled in, nearly crushing a man passed out, or dead, on the floor, but rounded to face the guards with his own snear as soon as he was inside. Clara went to follow, but the cage of the door was slammed shut and re-locked, and before she could ask what was going on, she was pushed further along the bridge, to another cage and had a spearhead digging dangerously close to her main artery in her neck, nicking the skin there.

Clara growled as they opened the door, spotting the beast of a man inside, the only one to occupy the cage she would too. He was tall, nearly, if not taller than Billy and twice as big in girth. He was hairy, black locks sprouting from his knuckles, arms and chest, despite balding on his round head. He smiled at her, teeth black and brown in rot, and even from her distance, she could smell his foul stench burning her nostrils. They, these island folk, obviously had no problem with overcrowding their cells, so that meant this man was in here, on his own, for only a few reason, none of them making Clara feel comfortable in the least. And she was going to be shoved in, locked in, with this bear of a man... On her own, in shackles, with no weapons.

Clara was kicked in, door locking behind her with a loud click and clang, but she never turned her back on the man, instead backing up to the barred wall of her cell, backing away from the beast as much as she could and keeping near the corner by the door. Clara saw a shuffle take place in the cell next to hers, the one Vane had been thrown in, and like the parting of the sea, he appeared through the mass of bodies, eyes locking onto hers, somehow missing the big man at the far end.

"Are you alright red?"

Clara nodded, but never took her eyes from the man, and just as she was about to answer, two things happened at once. Vane spotted the man in her cage, and the man spoke for her, giving a slimy grin in her direction.

"Of course, she's fine. Aren't you sweetheart? How about you come over here and have a little chat with David? I ain't seen such a little lady before and none as pretty as you..."

Clara tensed, her muscles feeling like they had transformed to marble at his slick tone that she swore she could feel slide and slip over her, making her shiver in disgust. Clara glared, growling at the man through her bared teeth, reminiscent of a cornered Fox, red curls that had broken out of her plait framing her face, frizzy and out of control, looking for all their worth as if they were standing up in heckles.

"I'm not coming anywhere near you!"

The man lurched up from his squat on the floor, growing twice in size, still grinning, fingers hooked into his torn belt as he strolled with leisurely steps towards her.

"Don't be like that little lady, me and you can get to know each other, real well like. Look at it this way, better me than one of those men out there right?"

Clara's hand slid down to her own belt, hand coming up empty when it grasped nothing but air instead of her dagger, and the chains pulled taut on her shackles. She was well and truly backed into a corner, nothing to help her case. She was trapped. Yet, she still snarled back to the big man, trying to get him to back off, but her words fell to her building anger.

"Fuck off! I'd rather get crucified than 'get to know' someone who smells like pure horse shit and looks worse than he smells."

"Clara!"

Vane yelled out, but it was too late, she had hit the hibernating bear over the head with a log and it was coming for her flesh. Clara tried to run to the side as David charged towards her but only got a few steps in before his thick, flabby hand wrapped around her throat, lifted her feet from the ground and slammed her brutally into the cage door behind her. The bamboo dug into her back, her eyes swam in dizziness for a moment and her breath left her in one great rush, but then David's face was close to hers, too close. Clara dangled there helplessly as he spat his words into her face.

"Fine, you want to be like that, let's be like that. Be a good little bitch, keep quiet, turn your head to the side and think of good ol' England if you have to, just spread those legs."

Vane grabbed the bars of his own cell, shouting at the man holding her above ground to let her go, but Clara knew it was all useless. She was on her own in here, and she would only survive by her own hand.

Clara felt David's hand grasp her collar, heavy and thick fingers digging into the top of her breast, readying to pull and tear her shirt in half and bare herself to him, but Clara steadied herself, steeled herself, telling herself this was not the way she would go down, not without a fight from hell before hand. Remembering what Vane had said, Clara raised her foot as high as she could and slammed it down on the man's delicates, sending him careening to the floor in a great groan and creak, dropping her neck and shirt in the process. For, after all, what main pressure point did a man have, if not his own 'man-hood'?

"I told you to fuck off. Last warning, stay the hell away from me!"

The man was only down for a few moments, then he was diving for her in full out anger, red in the face and neck, snarling and dribbling. Clara ducked his grasp in time, sending him over her and crashing into the cage wall. Before he could recover, the best she could do with her hands shackled together on a shortish chain, Clara bounced over and used the momentum and her weight to elbow the fucker in his giant sweat stained stomach, making him splutter and wheeze, spittle flying out of his mouth. Vane was shouting in the background, but Clara couldn't hear it over the hailstorm of her pounding heart and own breath.

Thinking he was down, for at least now, Clara tried to make a dash for the other side of the cage, to put distance between them, but she had underestimated his anger pushing through his pain as he wrapped a meaty fist around her plait and dragged her backward by the roots of her hair. Wet mist fogged her eyes at the stinging pain as she was once again lifted off her feet, but she found herself begging. Not for herself, not to try and stall the man, but because she knew what would come if he didn't stop this. She didn't want to kill again, but she would if he carried on. Shackles be damned.

"Don't do this. Please."

David laughed, thinking she was begging him for a totally different reason.

"That's right, beg!"

Clara felt his sticky hand fumble with her trousers, trying to get down in the leather and her resolve snapped, feeling calm against all odds and for the first time she could hear Vane yelling at her, as if he was speaking right in her ear instead of behind bars over the other side of the cage.

"Pressure points! Use your size Clara! fast and nimble!"

Kicking behind her with everything she had, her boot made contact with the man's knee, sending a thrill of joy and triumph down her spine when she heard the sickening crunch. He dropped down automatically, falling to the floor, one knee bent and the other laying uselessly by his side, loosening his grip on her hair. Clara crouched as she landed on the floor, bending backwards, like when she was a child and used to walk on her hands, or do the crab walk, her hands landed on David's shoulders, chain close to his neck, and with a forceful kick off from her legs, she flipped over him. Landing behind him, her chest to his back, Clara clenched the chain tight between her hands, twisted... And pulled. The iron slipped through the folds of fat that was David's neck and strangled.

He gasped, hands flying for the chain, but Clara was braced already, one leg spread out behind her and the other knee braced against his back, giving her extra pull to twist and pull the chain even further. He flailed, crashing into her, sending them both sprawling onto the floor and rolling about the small enclosed space, him landing on her legs, nearly laying on top of her, but Clara ignored the pain, ignored the heavy weight on top of her, and pulled even harder, the shackles cuffs digging into her delicate wrist skin.

He tried to buck her off, Clara held true, he tried to kick at her, she pulled tighter, but he never punched, instead choosing to pull and clasp at the chain around his neck as the rocked from side to side in their struggle. If he had have punched, Clara knew it would've been game over for her. She wasn't stupid, he was three times her size, one good hit from him in her face or head and she would've been knocked unconscious. But the chain distracted him from doing so, and subsequently distracted him from saving his own life.

His movements slowed down, becoming sluggish as oxygen became sparse. Then they stopped altogether, but Clara kept pulling the chain tightly until she heard a gut-churning crack as his head snapped to the side, neck bent unnaturally and all twitching stopped instantly. Flopping to the floor, hands slacking, staring at the ceiling, cooling body still on her legs, breathing heavily, tears still building in her eyes, Clara whispered one word brokenly, so quiet that hopefully if he did exist, god did not hear it.

"Twelve."

"Red?"

Clara came too, raising her head from the floor, looking over to the voice that had called her, looking at Vane dead in the eye. They must have rolled closer to his cage in the ensuing struggle, for he was crouched by her shoulders, his arm pressed through the bars, hand reaching for her. Clara took a steadying breath, pulling all emotion and conflict inside her, pushing it deep down. Reaching up, after untangling the chain from the man's neck, she grasped his hand and with a tug, he helped pull her out from underneath the mass of flesh that was slowly going blue and up to a standing position.

Once she was standing, he pulled her closer, letting go of her hand and wrapping it around her. Clara was slower to act, still reeling from what had nearly happened to her and what she had done... Again. But she did act, and slowly slipped her hand and arm through a space in between the bars and hugged him back, well, both hugging as best as they could with the chains around their wrists, needing that comfort right then. Slowly, bit by bit, her breathing evened and her tears dried. It had to happen. It did. It was either him or she and she had chosen herself. It. Had. To. Happen.

Then she heard speaking, in that foreign language again, at her cells door and click of a lock. Pulling away from Vane, Clara had barely enough time to blink before she was snagged by different guards then the ones that had dragged her and Vane here. They jostled her out from the cage, and Clara tried to fight them off but it seemed hopeless because if she fought off one set of hands, another would take their place. She tried to dig her feet into the flooring, but they still pulled her out.

As she was dragged back onto the bridge, away from the dead body and her only possible friend in this place, she looked behind her and saw Vane staring after her, shouting.

"Clara! Let her go you bastards! It is me you want! Red!"

* * *

Clara was pushed into a room, or a shell of a hut that had no windows, no holes for light to pass through and fight the shadows that swirled around the circular room. There was one chair, wooden and old, in the middle of the room and in front of it proudly stood a throne, for it could be nothing else. Fabrics of all kinds and colours thrown over and hanging off the wooden spiked sharpened throne. The shadows, Clara found, were magnified by the iron baskets that housed little bonfires of flame on either side of the throne, making the large seat cast a long, pitch black shadow nearly all the way to the entrance, crossing over and nearly swallowing the smaller and poorer chair in the middle of the room. It all lead to one feeling for whoever sat on the throne and the poorer chair. The one in the throne was better than you, more important. You were nothing, a spot to be blocked out.

Clara was shoved further into the cavernous room, led to the chair, pushed into it by her shoulder, had her arms pulled behind her back, her shackles unlocked only for the chain to be threaded through the back bars of the chair and re-locked and then, thankfully, the men stepped back but kept close, guarding her sides. For what seemed like hours, she was left on her own, the guards so quiet Clara didn't even think they were breathing, until someone walked into the room, head held high and proper, gliding to the throne and sitting on it with folded hands, someone Clara hadn't expected to see, or to question her. For the woman, sitting on her high throne, hair wrapped in clothe and watching Clara, looked like a queen, not a jailer.

"What are you doing here?"

The queen of this island, for she had to be with how she spoke and sat, words tinged with an accent but clear, authoritative and direct, stared Clara down, but the ginger girl didn't give in, didn't turn away. This would boil down to only one thing, a battle of wills between the two women, and Clara refused to fail. She would get out of this, and so would Vane. And like many situations before, when Clara really should have known better, she fell back on her sarcasm, sore and angry at everything around her.

"Being tied to a chair, interrogated for nothing more than landing on the wrong fucking island. Honestly, I-"

The queen looked over Clara's shoulders, the first time she had taken her eyes from Clara, and gave a sharp nod. In one practised and sweeping move, a guard stepped forward, the bonfire lighting his features up, raised a fist and swung it at Clara's face. Clara's head snapped to the side painfully, her mouth filling with blood from her bitten cheek as her eye throbbed in absolute pain. Clara growled out a grunt, leaned over her side and spat onto the dusty floor, wincing when her own blood splattered onto the ground.

"Don't play foolish with me. I see you, that fire in your eyes, it's hard to miss. Many of my people have that same heat, but I see no slave bands, no scars. I don't want to know what you are doing on my island, I already have a good idea, but why you are with that man... That pirate?"

Clara chuckled, wondering how the hell she had gotten here, tied to a chair in the middle of an island, being punched black and blue, being interrogated about her association with Charles Vane of all people. Obviously, that was the wrong move, as she was hit again, in the same eye, forcing her to cry out in pain this time. Turning to face the guard with a glare, Clara spat at her venom at him.

"Jesus Christ! Stop with the head! I might forget what it is you want to know!"

The island queen stood up, slipped off her throne and came towards Clara, and all the tied redhead could do was stare at the woman with wide eyes, well one wide eye as her other was slowly but surely swelling shut. The queen came to a stop only one step away, really and truly staring down Clara now with folded hands still at her lap, looking the most regal Clara had ever seen someone be. Like the woman was born for this role, it was in her blood, heart and veins. She was queen... Clara was a prisoner on shaky ground.

"Tell me."

"I came from Nassau-"

The island queen's hands parted and she waved one in front of her face as if blowing Clara's explanation or answer away like a foul smell.

"I know of Nassau, stop trying to talk your way out of this, I kn-"

Clara had one chance at this, and it rested on a big gamble, one that could cost her life. The guard that had hit her, she had seen his face close by, and the scar on his cheek, running across the bridge of his nose, she had seen that scar before, she could swear it. But could she place the worth of her life on the chance of the sight of a passing scar? Yes, she could, for she had nothing else to use.

"Oh I know you know of Nassau, after all, I've seen that man over there on Nassau plenty of times before, working in Guthrie's, then he disappeared. I didn't think much of it before, people have the nasty habit of dying on Nassau... But now I know where he went."

Clara didn't take her eyes from the queens, but she did jut her chin to her left, in the direction of the guard that had hit her twice. Waiting with bated breath, Clara knew there were two options that would play out to her ploy. Either she was right, and the queen would somehow show it, most likely by having her not hit again or killed, or she was wrong. And that outcome was something she didn't want to think of.

The island queen tensed, so slightly, and a singular twitch in her jaw as she rose her chin gave Clara all the answer she needed. Nearly sagging in her chair in relief, Clara could have smiled, but held it back, not quite sure that expression would be either welcomed or greeted with the same curtsey. Knowing she was right in her half-guessed assumption, Clara carried on.

"I would say he escaped and happily found his way here. But we both know that isn't true is it? You either visit there, under secret and help the slaves there, or you already have a man inside, ready at a moments notice to ferry as many as he can to safety and freedom without being caught. That's why I'm in here, why Vane is in a cage. You can't let us go now, not now we know about this island and its inhabitants."

The island queens hands folded back together in front of her, but Clara could see her fingers, only two, clenched tightly together in the dim light. Her response was one Clara had expected.

"That is a statement that does not help your case. For, really, if what you say is true, I should just kill you both where you stand."

Clara decided to push her luck. The island queen had warned her of killing them, when in all good fortune if she was really going to do such, she wouldn't have mentioned it at all and done the act swiftly. The queen had no one to answer to, no one to dispute or argue against Clara's or Vane's death here. So, that meant they were alive for a reason. And with the knowledge of the tie into Nassau, the queen, Vane and herself, Clara thought she might have figured out why they weren't dead.

"You won't."

The queen looked taken aback momentarily before she snubbed that emotion and her mask was back in place.

"I won't? How can one in your position be so sure?"

Clara straightened out in her seat, arms pulling uncomfortable from their position behind her back, the pain in her eye, ribs and scalp singing in the base of her skull, but a smirk tugged at the corner of her rosy and chapped lips all the same.

"You won't because you would have already slit our throats by that lagoon instead of dragging us all the way here. You're curious about the actual people on Nassau, for you've never met them, only heard stories and third-hand rumours from your informant. You want to see who you're fighting, who you're up against. But you've got it wrong. Me and Vane, we're not the ones you're fighting. In fact, I dare say we can help each other out."

The island queen sent her a dark look, matched with taunt smile and a deep chuckle.

"You, help me? You're the one in chains at my feet. If anything, it will be me helping you out. I've been under people like you before, people who speak pretty words but pull the whip back all the same."

Clara yanked her chains as she jolted to stand, but the chains restrained her as they should and all she could do was strain up. She needed the queen to see it how she did, for this was no longer just about her survival, or Vane's, if she took the right steps, convinced the queen, she might have allies in her bigger picture, her bigger plan. One that would want what Clara did as much as herself did. So, with no anger dusting her tone for once, Clara looked deeply into the queen's deep and soulful eyes and implored her to see what she did.

"If there is one thing I can promise you, it's you've never met a person like me. Never. I have no use for pretty words, not with you, your people, my Captain or anyone else. Tell me, is that spear the best you have? Maybe some bows and arrows locked away somewhere? Because when other pirates come, when the English or slave traders come, because they will, your sticks and stone heads will not save you from them. They will rip this place apart, including you and your people for daring to stand on your own! They'll rape your women, encase your children in chains, kill your men..."

The queen's mask fractured and the woman glared at her fiercely, shoulders pushing further back, looking down her nose at Clara.

"Are you threatening me? They will have to find us first!"

Clara scoffed, knowing even the queen couldn't possibly believe that, not when she had proven to be so smart, cunning and ruthless enough to build a place such as this island, and off the back of Nassau at that.

"We found you didn't we? If you believe they won't come, you are not as I thought you to be. I am not threatening you. I'm offering you a deal, both beneficial to you, me and my Captain."

The queens head tilted to the side a fraction, eyes scanning Clara up and down before finally settling back on her bruised and grazed face.

"Pray tell, what would this deal entail then?"

Clara shuffled on her chair, trying pointlessly to lessen the strain on her pulled and bent arms. First, Clara would strike the deal for their escape and hopeful return to the island, the place for the gold to be held and their lives spared. If the queen proved... Like minded, then as Clara brokered the deal, she would feel her out, watch her reactions, the words she chose, and if, then she would maybe edge into her own deal, one that didn't involve the Urca or any Captains. Hopefully, if they lived through this, Vane wouldn't be too pissed of she had bargained without his knowledge or consent. If he was, well, next time he could be the one interrogated.

"My Captain, my crew, me... We get access to your island. Wait! Before you hit me again, hear me out! Just the cave and lagoon and passage to and from said place to our ship! You can watch us for our entirety of stays on your island. We follow your laws, your rules. If one of us breaks any, you do to them what you wish, as long as you inform us of said slight against you. And in payment, we can arm you! Give you proper guns, proper weapons to defend this place for when the time comes. For the time will come when blood will have to be spilled for your island in your name, and would you rather face your enemies with twigs and bear traps or guns and swords? I will even help you build this place up, give you the materials and resources to build the walls higher, stronger, fortify this place so no man or woman could dare think about breaking through its barriers."

During Clara's frantically offered deal, the queen had backed up step by step, the shadows slowly encasing her as she fell back onto her throne, watching, folding one leg over the other, hands clasped over one knee. The light from the bonfires at her side made her eyes seem ablaze as they stared into Clara's own.

"You've thought about this before. This isn't just a quick plan, a quick bargain to spare yours and your Captain's lives and ensure whatever you need. You've thought about protecting an Island from invasion before... How old are you? Eighteen, nineteen? What has a girl thought of to come to this?"

It seems, while Clara had been prodding the queen to see if she could be reliable, someone she could come to an agreement with, with more than the deal to get off this island, the queen had done the same as her, and was extremely more practised in picking up the nuances and hidden agenda's behind words. Fuck. Clara could only do two things, throw all her eggs in one basket and hope for the best, or turn tail and back out while she still could. Clara chuckled, wheezing a little. When had she ever backed out of anything, even when the odds seemed stacked against her? Never. She wasn't going to ruin that streak now.

"I see what you see. I know nothing of slavery, or the pure horrors that you and your people must have faced in the dead of night, in your darkest moments, and I can never hope to understand. But I do know what it is like to have the bigger man, the fucking crowns boot stomped on your head, holding your face into the dirt, telling you this is all you will ever be, all you will ever have, and then it takes more from you until you are the dirt. I want a place like this, an Island with no king or queen, no government. A place ran by the people for the people. Nassau can... Nassau will become this. And when that time comes, I want us standing side by side. A united force under no flag or crown."

The queens eyes squinted at her as she carried on her unnerving and continuous watch of Clara, and Clara, for once, wanted to shift from under someone's gaze.

"That does not sound like that part of the deal came from your Captain, but you. Piracy is a destructive occupation. Yet, you... You speak, feel and act like a creator. Do you even know what you will be facing? Who will side against you? Nassau is guarded like a gem by its governor I have heard, backed up by the in-formidable English force. In this big plan, this bloodshed you will let loose, which I assume no one knows you are planning, not even your Captain, who will in their right mind side with you? A little-lost-girl who has barely opened her eyes to the world? Who has no ship and men to lead herself? An outsider? Who will fight your cause with you?"

Clara smirked darkly,such a twisted joke of a smile. She didn't need to worry about that, that was the one thing she didn't need to worry about in this plan of hers. For she would be backed up by the very people she was doing this for, people like her, people like her lost friend, the people who hid in the shadows of Nassau, still repressed despite being leagues away from England. It was getting to the stage when she would call these people to her that was the hard part.

"The confused, the broken, the scarred... The lost and lonely. Too many. Just like us, the underdogs of this shit-hole of a world we live in. We outnumber them! The white hats, the blue coats, the crown, the slavers, the governors, the fucking gentry of every country. For every one lord, there is ten of us. A Ship? When I do call for arms, when I do implement my plan, not next week or even next month, maybe not for years to come, but when the time's right, Don't you worry about me not having my own ship, for I promise I will, and I'll have plenty of men and women lining up to serve."

Clara got passionately caught up, spewing her guts to a stranger, to a queen. This was not a petty dream, this she would do if it was the last thing she ever tried. This was a solemn promise and by the gleam in the queen's eyes bouncing off the firelight, she knew this too. Clara carried on when no protest or scoff came.

"Why are we the ones that get trod on like dirt? The ones who do the hard work, the labour, who die, day in day out with no one to shed a tear over our unmarked graves? Because that's how it's always been. The fat bastard who sits upon high giving orders to the smaller men. it will continue to be if we don't say stop if we don't stand up and stab the beast right in its fucking heart. So? I'm here saying stop now, and others will follow me. They will see it just like I do because you see it too don't you? And I swear by any numerous god out there, you, me and people like me will be ready... My mother once told me a saying from some foreign author, I didn't understand it at the time, but I do now. Men fight battles, woman rage war...They want a battle? I'll rage a fucking war! The likes of any they have never seen before! For every one ship they have, I'll have a god damned armada!"

Clara coughed as she came to a wheezy halt, breathless, sweating from the heat, in pain, but also in a delirious sort of madness that had grabbed tightly a hold of her as she gave words and life to her plan, having said it out in the open, people having heard her oaths somehow cementing it, writing it on stone to never be backed out from.

The queen descended her throne once more, coming to Clara's front, this time, however, bending down to look her eye to eye, her dark gaze soaking up Clara's iris's, pupils and feelings on display in her eyes.

"There's that fire, and now I know the names to place to it. A mad sort of genius, hope, determination, a fighter... A leader...A rebel... An anarchist in sheep's wool..."

The queen stood up fully once more, turning in a flutter of faded green skirt, a clinking of wooden beaded necklaces and a flick of a head scarf, speaking to Clara from over her shoulder.

"A hope all the same, no matter the person behind it. What you speak of, what you plan, the road you are so willing to travel down on will be paved in blood and bodies. Brought and wrought on the broken backs of the downtrodden, guarded by a ruthless governess hiding behind her father's reputation and standing. A revolution dreamed up by a girl. And yet... Clara, I too hope to see you succeed in a way if only to see the people who buy mine burn, even if I believe that dream will never be reached. However, I cannot place my people's lives, the lives I've helped give them, balance on said girls dream. Why should I listen any further?"

Test. The island queen was testing her, seeing how much Clara had already planned out, how much she had thought about this. How far Clara was willing to go to see it happen, If she was smart enough to even begin this plan let alone start it and watch it grow. The queen was going to be pleasantly surprised, or unpleasantly surprised, seen as she had moments prior described Clara as a mad sort of genius.

"Because, as you very well know, this dream as you call it, what I call an Inevitability, will only come to pass when we stop fighting amongst ourselves. When we stop being scared to run instead of crawling at their feet. Only when we stand together, as one, will we succeed. If you truly want your people to be free, without the shadow of the English, Spanish, slave traders, the god damned world at your doorstep forever looming over you and your people, then you need to stand and not hide. I'm not asking for this to happen now, I know how far off this would be. The resources, the people, experience, everything we need... I need, only time can help build and bolster up. I'm asking for one simple thing, take the deal, the one I have offered about the cave and when, or if as you believe, If I do call for help, if I do say it's time to stand as one, you stand with me and the people on our side. Do not crush this hope before I can even breath life into it."

This plan, Clara's golden goal, was not even a blip on the horizon of her time scale right now. She wasn't stupid, time would help her, teach her, build her up. The gold, the reason she was on the Urca hunt in the first place was the first stepping stone. The gold wasn't what she was after so much as the reputation that came with it. She would be known as one of the few who fucked the Spanish over, stolen from royalty and gotten away with it. That news would travel fast on Nassau, and even further maybe. Tricking the Spanish into losing their gold by hiding it in another location would be the icing on her growing reputation. The gold would help, for sure, in building herself up and securing supplies, but the reputation that came with it? That was what she desperately needed. It would make people look her way, see her in a different light, it would also give her first-hand experience in warfare.

The gold could help build her very own ship or at least help towards that end. Once she had a ship, a crew to go along with her reputation, a crew of like-minded individuals, then it was a game of building. Hunt by hunt, prize by prize, ship by ship, all taken from the crowns of the world, her reputation and forces would grow until she had a fucking naval force under her command. And this island, the one this Maroon queen ran, would be perfect to hide her ships, if they stroked up a friendship. If she hid her ships here, in a crag or indent of the island, then she would not pull on anyone's stringed web. No one would know what she was up to until it was too late. Away from Nassau, away from England and away from Guthrie's eyes.

And when she was ready, when her crews were ready, when her ships were hardy and numerous, then she would set sail for Nassau... Then she would declare war. She would claim Nassau under a black flag, take it from Guthrie's fingers and England's claws. She would throw the crown out from Nassau and declare it a true free land, not led by England, not led by a greedy Eleanor in the premise of her father, who pretended she was for the pirates and freedom but was truly only for her own purse and wealth. She would step back, she would guide Nassau with a soft hand and let it create itself. No kings, no queens, no governors. A congregation of people who would form a senate, but have no crazy emperor to hold them back, no one man, or woman, leading them. True democracy, run by them for themselves.

Then she would sail back to England, gather people like her, and bring them back to Nassau. Back to a better life. A life she had helped mould and create. This was her reason. This was what would help make up for the people she had killed. This was her fate. A place where she, Flint, Miranda, Silver, Rackham, Anne... Vane, everyone like them could call home and have no bounty on their head. A home for the free. God help anyone who got in her way.

The queens voice broke the glittering future Clara was picturing in her mind in a shatter of fading pixie dust.

"I will, I think, Enjoy watching you try to create this utopia you speak of, but I fear you are not seeing the dangers ahead of you truly. I'm also afraid, no matter what I could say, be it a gods word, it would not deter you from this. So, All I will say on this matter, for now, is good luck and may god be with you."

God... God had no hand in this. Clara did, and she would not fuck up like he had. However, Clara simply tried to edge her way for an answer, a definitive one of whether she was getting off this island to try and create this 'utopia'.

"So... You're letting us go?"

The queen gave a hearty chuckle, beckoning a guard over to her with a flick of her thin wrist.

"I may see myself coming to trust you, however, as you've said, you are not your Captain. And that man? I do not know. Bring him!"

Clara sighed and closed her eyes, head flopping down onto her chest with a roll of her neck. After all that, after finally telling someone of her planning, it was all for naught because Vane could fuck it all up and they would both be dead on this island, ditched in the jungle for plant and animal's to feast on. God help them If Vane lost his temper. For then, really, all of this would be just a dream from a little-lost-girl after all.

* * *

While one of the guards was gone, the other had left momentarily only to come back with a chair that matched hers, flinging it into place by her own, not a single look threw her way, as if she didn't exist. Clara didn't know how long she waited, for her mind was off in the future and her body was focused on the pain that radiated off different spots of her body. At one point, Clara was sure she had passed out, because the next thing she had known, or could recollect other than the looming shadows and blankness, was shuffles at the door, snarling from a gruff voice, and Vane in all his glory being slammed into the seat next to her, his shackles getting the same treatment hers had, being locked behind him.

Clara looked over to him, unfortunately, her bad eye, that had swollen shut in her loss of consciousness and obviously bruising, being on the side to greet Vane first. Clara winced at Vane's fist words to the queen that held their lives in her hands, his tone even and quietly deadly. Silent and calm anger was worse than any blistering storm, especially when it came in the form of one Charles Vane.

"The fuck you do to her?"

The queen ignored him, only sending a passing glance his way, nothing more than a skim of her eyes as she began speaking.

"I've been speaking to your friend and I believe we have come to an understanding. You can use the cave, the lagoon, with a few conditions. You follow our rules while here, if broken, we are the ones to supplement the punishment, with your backing of course. We also keep an eye on you while you're on our land. And finally, in payment for our silence about the use of the cave by you and your crew, you give us weapons. Guns, swords, knives, daggers, cannon. Totalling in at least a hundred in total."

Clara could see Vane's nostrils flare in anger as he slowly turned to regard her with frosty eyes. Clara swallowed deeply, there was no maybe about it, Vane was definitely pissed she had bargained their freedom without him. Still looking at her with those damned eyes, he spoke to the island queen.

"This is what my... Friend has offered?"

Then was Clara not only under Vane's glare but also under the watchful eyes of the island queen who missed nothing. So what did Clara do? Clara did what she always found herself doing lately, scoffed a growl and glared back through her one open eye. The Maroon queen was the one to break the icy atmosphere.

"Deal or no deal?"

Vane's lip curled up into a snarl over his teeth as he strained from his chains very much like Clara had earlier, now aiming that anger at the queen.

"How the fuck do I know I can trust you? Hmmm? How do I know you won't go running off to the first people who come across your path and tell them about the wondering pirates who've used your cave?"

In his straining, Vane's collar to his shirt had opened further, flapping down and exposing his upper chest. The queen glanced down, smiled a calm smile, the first smile Clara had seen from the woman, and glided down from her thrown, her dulcet tones butterfly light as she came towards Vane.

"How do I know you won't tell Nassau of our island? How do I know you will follow through with the deal of arming us when you have the cave? Because it seems, we are not so different you and me."

Her fingers, thin and long, reached over and danced over a part of Vane's skin, exposed from the shirt, fingertips brushing over scarred skin Clara had not taken noticed of back when they were swimming and he was shirtless. A branding mark, scarred from years of age and healing, decorated his pec, a circle with four points. Vane... Vane had a slave brand... At some point in his life, a while ago, Vane, fiery and headstrong Charles who Clara could see as nothing but a Captain of a pirate ship, was a slave.

Vane wrenched back from the queen's touch, almost sending him and his chair crashing to the floor backward. The queen, in retaliation, simply smiled the same tranquil smile, reached over, flipped his shirt back over his mark and stood primly in from of both of them.

"Deal or no deal?"

Vane huffed and glanced over to Clara and all she could do at that time was try and send him a smile, though she doubted it looked anything like a smile in reality, hoping he would see the merits to her offer. She pushed away the sight of his mark, what that meant for him, for she didn't find out because he wanted her to, she saw and knew because she was there when it was flashed into the open and bitter world. Clara refused to think about it, speak about it to him unless he brought it up. It wasn't her place too, she didn't have that right, even if he never brought it up again. Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, Vane turned to face the queen head on.

"Deal."

The queen gave a keen nod, waved a guard over and motioned to both Clara and Vane with a finger.

"Unchain them. We will take you back to your boat, for it is time for you to leave. On our way, we will talk details."

The chains thunked off, fell to the ground behind them and were left discarded on the floor. Clara brought her arms around her front, rubbing gingerly at her red wrists, her right one bleeding slightly from the metal digging in when she had strangled... When she had saved herself. A guard, the very same who had decked her, went to yank her up from her seat by her shoulder but retreated pretty hastily when Vane sent a glare his way and came over from being freed himself. Clara ignored the two men, standing on shaky and tired legs, and with the Maroon queen, a handful of guards and Vane who prowled like a cat from the savannah, left that hobble of a prison room and began to leave the island, the shadows dissipating by the bright sunlight as they walked freely into the open.

* * *

The sun was sinking into the late afternoon by the time they had made it to their little boat and Clara stood by it as Vane and the island queen stood a little off to the side, just out of the water, coming to the finer details of their bargain and ironing out little inconsistencies. Clara stared at her feet, watching the foamed little waves of water lap at her boots, cooling and soothing her aching feet. Even from their distance away from her, she could hear Vane's words carry on the little breeze that ruffled through her clothes and hair.

"We will be back with our full ship in three weeks, a month tops. Only trust the ship if you see it flying my flag, a red skull and red dagger on the black. If they're not flying it, it's not us. We'll bring a portion of the payment with us then, one-quarter. And if you prove trustful, the rest will follow a month after."

The queen nodded as if expecting the payment to be fractioned up into parts from the beginning. Maybe she had, after all, the Maroon queen seemed to expect everything before even the person thought of it themselves. If she didn't prove trustful, then Clara wasn't sure what they would do. She was perceptive, quick-witted and had an eye like no one else Clara had met. Out thinking her, outmanoeuvring her if she betrayed them would be a hard feat to pull off, even to Clara who prided herself solely on her keen mind.

"We will expect your arrival for a months time."

Vane nodded, turned, his coat swirling around him and marched to the boat. Holding onto the rim, he went to push it back out to sea, Clara readying to help when she felt and heard someone coming up behind her, splashing in the shallow waters, a thin and long hand resting on her shoulder. Turning around, she was welcomed with the queens dark gaze.

"When the time comes, when I see _your_ flag on the horizon, we stand together."

Clara soaked in her words, knowing full well this was her first step to her plan being fulfilled. She had her first allies in this, and when looking back, if she succeeded, she knew it would have begun here, half in the sea, staring into a queen's eyes with Vane beside her. Here... It began now, but she had a hard road ahead of her to get to the finish line.

Clara gave an incline of her head, telling the queen she understood without words, reached up and squeezed the hand on her shoulder, grinning. Words and tone quiet, but full of promise, Clara gave her own oath back to the island queen.

"As one."

The maroon queen backed away, slipping through the sea and back to land, back to her guards, not glancing back once as she faded back into the dense jungle once more. Clara turned back around, pushing the boat as Vane did, only jumping in when Vane already had, following his lead. Vane went straight for the oars, not giving the Clara the option of anything but sitting down and resting before she fell down or overboard.

Flopping down into the small space of the hull of the row boat, Clara rested her back against the grainy wood, curled up and closed her eyes, needing the few hours of sleep she would get before her turn to row more than anything else. She was physically drained as much as she was emotionally, but as she closed her eyes, all she could see was David's hairy and tobacco stained hands reaching for her throat. She could hear the soft sound of the waves hitting the boat, the grind of the oars, and then Vane's voice as he spoke to her.

"What was that about Red? Another deal you've kept me out of?"

Clara slipped one eye open, the only one she could, squinting at Vane's black form, the sun behind him casting his front into a blinding shadow of an impressive silhouette. Grinning, she snarked back.

"No. It's nothing to worry about. Not yet, anyhow. We have the Urca to worry about and how the hell we're going to get a hundred weapons in a month... And next time we pick a hiding spot or an island, I'll do it. God know's where you would choose next..."

* * *

 **Next Chapter:** A visit with Miranda, a hushed moment between Silver and Clara, reading lessons with Rackham, sword fighting with Bonny and they finally set sail for the Urca...

 **CHAPTER NOTES:**

 _Men fight battles, women rage war_ is a quote from Philippa Gregory, the writer of the white queen.

 **Clara's big plan, and how does it differ from everyone else's struggles for power?**

Clara's big plan, in short, is to take over Nassau and set it 'free'. Very similar to everyone else's plans and schemes, but completely different at the same time. Flint, as he is quoted from the show, talking to Billy Bones says 'I will be your king'. This shows us he wants to sit on top and rule like a king would. Vane wants to keep doing what he's doing, being the most vicious pirate out there and, in short being on top in the power struggle that way. Silver is trying to climb in station on Flint's ship, gaining power and standing for himself. Eleanor wants things her way, where everyone has to answer to her, take their hunts from her, leaving her in charge.

So how does that differ from Clara's own scheme? Clara is not doing it for _herself_. She's not trying to become a Captain, or take gold, or get a ship to better herself. Clara and her plan is fundamentally against all that. She doesn't want one person in absolute power, let alone herself. She's trying to create a democracy out of pirates, a committee of voters that would pass the laws and judgements with no one man sitting on top with final say. A new home for herself and people like her.

This is, in later chapters, going to create a lot of friction between her and everyone else. Especially her father Flint, because while her plan is eerily similar to his, both wanting to take Nassau, Flint wants to appoint himself supreme ruler while Clara wants to get rid of all rule, literally casting it out of Nassau.

Why have I taken Clara this way? Because I feel it fits her character perfectly. She's grown up in the underbelly of London. She's seen first hand what a singular ruler and a corrupts government can do to its people, will do to its people. This has created a deep hate inside her for anything like it. In her mind, one person can't rule alone, it doesn't work and never will. So, she's trying to break that system and implement one she thinks is better for herself and other people. She's also seen what power does to people, making them fall to greed and corruption and knows enough of herself to see herself, if put in that place, fall like others would.

As for the Maroon Queen calling Clara an anarchist in sheep's wool, I think this fits her character down to a T, especially in later chapters. For making this plan and actually doing it, Clara is going to have to unleash chaos and she knows it. And really, it's based off from the quote a wolf in sheep's clothing, which fits Clara's strongest advantage. She is nearly always underestimated, like the rapist in this chapter, and people often pay the price for it or get strangled (hint and foreshadowing of what she does to Nassau to try and gain power). This she will use to her advantage, and disadvantage later on.

Does this mean all of her plans will go right, if at all? Unlikely, and other things will pop up and divert her, but this is, at this time (Things could change) what she is planning on doing.

 **If Clara is trying to capture Nassau, does that mean there will be a big Clara VS Eleanor moment?**

Of course, this is coming, I've been laying the seeds for this since the very beginning, when Clara noticed how people watch, take notice and listen to Guthrie nearly as much as Flint. Clara knows Guthrie is a BIG threat to her plan, as she is practically the governor of Nassau herself, and therefore the one Clara will need to take down to get Nassau. Guthrie, to Clara, is the literal human embodiment of a single ruler, she literally governs Nassau and therefore, everything Clara hates.

I can't say much about how it happens, who wins and what goes down, because SPOILERS, but I will give a little snip bits of what Chapter twenty-one and twenty-two contain, the chapters where this bubbles over and goes down. Ned Low is a catalyst, a favour asked of Clara that she isn't sure she can fulfil, propaganda, slights against Clara that she will not stand for in front of people she is trying to sway to her side and a VERY public and VERY bloody message to someone.

 **Was that the Maroon queen from season 3?**

Yes, it was. She just sort of demanded to be in this fic and I couldn't help myself, however in my little black sails universe, Madi does not exist and will not be showing up. As we know, this will effect Flint and his crew when they get to Maroon island, quite a bit in fact. However, as I've said before, this fic can't stay true cannon forever, as Clara is changing multiple things as time goes on, think of the butterfly effect, and it gambols from there.

 **A possible love square involving Ned Low?**

This is pretty easy to answer. No. The connect between Clara and Ned, and what goes down, is definitely not r _omance_ or any type of r _omantic_ feelings. To be honest, I'm having a hard enough time juggling Clara's, Vane's and Silver's lively characters, trying to make it even and believable at the same time. Ned doesn't come into that dynamic at all. So do not fret dear readers, it really is only Clara, Vane and Silver pairing.

 **Skiff or rowed craft?**

To the reader who brought this up, you are completely right, they would and should have used a skiff of some kind for the voyage. Yet, I couldn't resist having them something to do while they talked, something Clara could use as an excuse to try and bat off his question of her nickname Fox. So to anyone that found this as a bit of an eye roll or mistake, I am sorry, and I'll try to not let it happen again. :)

 **The big problem we should worry about... Smut and with who first?**

Well, this is tricky. As some of you have asked for **Silver and Clara to happen first** , and others for **Vane and Clara to happen first** and while this will become and is a Vane/Clara/Silver fic, someone has to go first right? And I don't won't to go one way and upset half, if not most of the readers for when they wanted the other to happen first. So, as I've already set up the stage for when the goodness does come and how, all that needs answering is who? So as always, it's up to you guys!

I'm creating, yes another, poll. It will be on my Fanfiction. Net homepage. It will be named Who First? and the only two options on it will be Vane/Clara and Silver/Clara. So if you could pop over to that and vote, or leave your vote in the reviews or a P.M, come Sunday, the next chapters release date, I'll close the poll and tally up all the votes. Why only four days? Because I need to tweak the plot a little here and there depending on who it is in the chapters leading up to it.

 **If I haven't answered any questions or given an affirmative to a guess or statement in a review or P.M, It means it is likely correct and now a spoiler.**

 **To all my reviewers:**

I can't thank you guys enough, honestly, this story wouldn't have gotten passed chapter three without lovely people like you leaving your kind words. You guys have pushed me on, made me plan it out harder, work on my writing and think I can possibly carry this on and people will actually enjoy it. So, the best I can do is say a huge **THANK YOU** and send a cyber hug to you all.

To those who aren't native English speakers, who have still read and left reviews, don't ever worry if you think you've spelled something wrong or haven't worded something right. I only speak one language, English and I have enough trouble with that alone, let alone reading a story in another language and then being kind enough to review in that language too. Honestly, you guys are ten steps ahead of me as it is, and any review or P.M is as welcomed and heart warming as the next. :)

 **A.N:** Thank you to every one of you, I hope you enjoyed this chapter and the ones to come. If you could, drop a review, they make my muse happy and coincidently me too. :)

Until Sunday!- **GoWithTheFlo20**


	16. Turn Back

Clara only awoke when their row-boat docked onto the rocky surface of Nassau's beach with a small crash and rock to the boat. Jerking awake, Clara scrambled for the rim, pulling herself up to hastily glance around herself to make sure they weren't under attack. Only when she was met with the bustling pirates, the blazing sun, and Vane's chuckle did her heart calm its gallop in her chest. She would have hit Vane, that bastard, if it weren't for the fact that he had let her sleep through the whole trip and rowed them to Nassau by himself.

Sighing tiredly and rubbing the sleep out from her eyes, Clara shakily came to a stand and hopped out of the boat, Vane having already swept out and walking towards Anne Bonny and Rackham, who must have seen them sailing in, as they were already waiting for them on the beach where they had landed. Anne glaring at anyone who came to close to her, hands on her twin swords hilts and Rackham idly twirling his moustache between his fingers waiting by Anne's side. Begrudgingly she followed, knowing whether she wanted to go back to sleep or not, Nassau would still throw something her way. It always did.

Just as Clara came to a stop by Vane, facing Rackham and Anne, the former taking a double glance at her black eye that had lessened in swelling but darkened in bruise, a drunk pirate, holding multiple bottles of rum impressively balanced in his arms, staggered past them, raising a bottle in salute to them as he wandered passed, smiling and shouting too loud for the time of morning it had to be by the sun's height.

"Happy saint Paddies day lads and lassies! Want some rum?"

Vane scoffed and shook his head, Rackham politely held his hand up in the negative and Anne snarled a silent warning. However, Clara stalled, seemingly stopping all movements until she slowly turned to the three pirates around her.

"Today's saint Patrick's day?"

Rackham smirked at her, likely thinking her ginger hair lead her to Irish blood, when he couldn't have been more wrong. Or, at least she thought he was wrong. Did Miranda or Flint have any Irish family? Clara shook her head, trying to dispel the pointless question from her mind physically. It was way too early for this shit, especially after the last two days she and Vane had just been through.

"Why, yes it is. The one day a year where drunk pirates get more inebriated than previously thought possible."

Clara blew off Rackham's explanation, instead grinning ear from ear. Making her way over to the drunk pirate swaying on his feet, plucked one of the bottles from his arms and popped the cork, taking a sound gulp of the rum, saluting him with her bottle after she had taken the drink. Thankfully, the man grinned and wandered off, shouting to another group of pirates a good few feet away from them, asking the same question he had asked them. Not looking back, Clara marched off, or tried too, when Vane shouted out from behind her, anger stinging his tone.

"Red, where are you going? We still have work to get done!"

Turning around to face her angry Captain, Clara carried on walking, only this time backward. She took another drink and waved it at the three, Rackham, Anne, and Vane who watched her leaving. Grinning wider, she told them of her plans. Or lack there off for this one day.

"Not today! Today, I'm off duty! It's my birthday after all and I have someone I need to go see! I'll be back tomorrow for whatever it is you plan to douse me in this time, today, however, I'm drinking until I've forgotten these past two months!"

Rackham was the first to act, and the only one to do so nicely, waving at her as she went.

"Happy birthday! Have a drink for me will you love?"

Anne huffed and hit him in the ribs, to which he replied with an easy grin and a shrug of his shoulders, fingers tugging on his scarf.

"What, it's only polite!"

Clara was about to turn around and did, when Vane shouted over to her, making her falter in steps but carry on walking away, glad to be getting away from the headaches, schemes and near deaths that seemed to keep hitting her in the face every day she greeted Nassau sand.

"Just be back tomorrow morn! Don't make me come and find you!"

As she strolled up the beach, towards the town, trying to think of the quickest and easiest way to get to the place she was telling herself she should go to, especially today, Clara walked passed a man on a horse, a wooden cart hooked to the horse and reigns, partially filled with rolls of hay. Backtracking a few steps when the sight registered in her mind, Clara coughed to get the man's attention and tried to paint the most sincere smile on her face, despite wanting to do no such thing.

"Are you heading inland, near the parish at all?"

The man, old and grey with a prominent bulbous nose under his stained hat, gave her a toothy smile, one of his front ones missing and more looking like they were ready to follow their comrade, and inclined his head.

"Aye lass, I am."

This time, Clara didn't have to fake her grin or her emotion on her face. Smiling, she came closer, having to crane her neck to get a good look at the man and hopped up onto the cart, sitting on the rim, still looking at the man and bottle of rum securely in her hold. She was going to need it for the journey to bolster her courage up.

"Mind if I hitch a ride?"

The man shook his head, pulled on the reigns and pinched his feet into the horse, ordering it to go onward.

"Nah Lass, you look like shit and I doubt you could make it on your own feet... No offence."

Clara chuckled and grinned but inwardly grimaced at the mentioning of her bruised and cut state, wandering as to what the person, the one she was off to see, reaction would be to find her as such. Would she even have a reaction, or simply not care? Clara pushed it back, she was already on her way now, there was no point in backing out, it had to be done at some point, and if not today, then when?

"None taken. I feel like it too, that's what the rum's for."

The man chuckled, and for a long while afterwards, the sound of the horses hooves clopping on the ground was the only sound to greet Clara's ears as she made her way inland.

* * *

Standing at the flaking door to a house, Clara took one last drink from her bottle and raised her clenched fist to knock, only to stop before her knuckles could touch wood. Was this something she should really be doing? Did the woman even remember what today was? Should she just turn tail and run, save herself while she could? No, she couldn't. She had promised the woman she would try, and promises were sacred to Clara.

If she didn't do this now, then she could die on the Urca and not have another chance come her way again. Straightening out, Clara knocked three times and didn't have to wait long, for the door swung open with a swish and Miranda's face, pleasant, warm and expectant with a glimmer in her eyes, greeted her and took her in simultaneously. Miranda gasped, reached out and ushered Clara in with soft hands as if the woman was afraid to touch her.

"What has befallen you? Was this Flint's crew? He swore... Swore to me you would be perfectly fine under his watch... That man!"

Clara had no time to try and break into Miranda's speech, as the woman ushered her into the very kitchen she had been in last time, forced her into a seat and was already turning around, piling up supplies of a large copper pot of hot water, confusedly seemingly already in wait on the kitchen table, a roll of gauze and her own bottle of alcohol, bringing them back to the table in front of Clara.

"It wasn't Flint or his crew. In all good honesty, It was my own fault... I've... I've joined a crew."

Clara didn't know why she told Miranda this, but she had and it was too late to take it back, it was already bared in the open for the older woman to dissect. However, her words did have the desired effect, and with Miranda's back to her, Miranda having turned to unroll the gauze and fiddle with the pot, Clara could see her stop, slowly looking over her shoulder, eyes locking onto Clara's, her words steady but blank of emotion.

"A crew? I don't suppose it is Flints either? Clara... Do you know the gravity of what you have done?"

Clara's nostrils flared in anger, eyes squinting at Miranda. She was so tired of that question from everyone. Did they think she was insipid, unaware of consequences? The state of her face should be telling enough that she knew very well what she had gotten into, yet time and time again, that one question was asked of her. Did people think so little of her? Did she look so incapable of making a good or rational decision that would benefit herself? And coming from Miranda, well, for some godly reason it hurt that much more to be seen as such.

"I pray for people to stop asking me that! Do you think me incapable of thought process? Of course I know! Does my state not prove that enough?!"

She didn't mean to, but anger bubbled up inside of her and Clara leaned forwards and slammed her fist onto the clothed table as she ranted, making the water in the copper pot splash in its container, nearly spilling out and splashing the table as she glared at Miranda. She knew it wasn't the woman's fault, Miranda was just the tip of the very deep and troubling iceberg that represented Clara's own worries, insecurities, and battered pride.

"I only worry Clara. I've only just found you, or you found me, I'm still not sure which way around it is. Am I not allowed to feel that?"

Clara's fist relaxed, her body did too, as her hand flopped off the table and back into her lap as she leaned back into the chair, sagging down. Of course Miranda could feel that, in fact, it felt nice to know at least someone out there was worrying for her, that someone cared. Looking up to Miranda's eyes, seeing the pain lurking in the shadows of her iris's, Clara felt extremely shitty, and it had nothing to do with her aching body. Slowly reaching over, Clara grasped Miranda's wrist, gently squeezing in what she hoped showed repentance and understanding.

" I know... I'm sorry, I've had a rough go of it over the last few weeks, but that's no excuse. You need not worry, I have Flint out there and Silve-... Another person who I believe will back me up if the worse comes to the worse. It'll be fine."

Clara wasn't sure if she was trying to reassure Miranda now, or herself. The line was blurred and Clara didn't know whether she wanted to try and figure it out. Miranda smiled at her, patted her hand as she let go of her and dipped the gauze into the mixture of hot water and alcohol, wringing it out only to turn back to Clara and edge closer, lifting her chin up with gentle fingers, dabbing the cloth on the graze of Clara's cheek and her sore eye, hand cradling her face.

"Be careful Clara, for friends are often not the friends we believe they are."

Now didn't that sound like a bad omen from a prophet? And how many people could that be acquainted with? Rackham, Anne, Vane? Out of all the people Clara had made fragile but tangible connections too, which one would be her Judas? Because it had to come at some point, betrayal was rife on Nassau, it would soon be Clara's time to face that. And in her little mental scour and picturing of who could betray her and how, Silver didn't show his face once. Clara found that... Disconcerting in the least.

"Silver... He's different. We've had problems before, both originating from him and me, but when it comes down to it, we have each other's backs. If I were truly in trouble, I can count on him to at least hide me away or get me here."

The hot water and alcohol on the graze on her cheek stung like a bitch, but it helped keep her grounded and in the moment, rather than trying to out think herself, trying to pointlessly predict others plans. There was three people she would never be able to predict, Vane, Silver and Flint and when they acted, she would just have to move on the spot. With them, there was no other option.

Miranda paused in her care of Clara, pulling her hand back and looking down upon her with a faint smile that was equally matched by the worry and sadness dancing in her eyes. It made Clara a little more than just uneasy.

"And this... Friend, is that all he is?"

Clara frowned up at Miranda, deeply confused by her words. What else would Silver be? And yet, the label of a friend was used very loosely on her part, because it didn't stick to him quite right. Silver was the type of person to not be compartmentalized or stuck in one box, if you did that to him, he seemed to leap out from the cage and jump into a completely different other. When Miranda pulled even further away, letting Clara's chin drop, Clara finally realized what she was edging towards and spluttered indignantly, ungracefully scrambling to correct the older woman, Clara rattled, speech graced with head shakes and stutters, bewildered at how Miranda could come to such a conclusion.

"Oh, no! Nothing like that. fuck. We can hardly keep ourselves from stabbing each other, but we're there if the other needs it. I wouldn't even call it friendship, to be honest, I do not know what to call it. Silver's just... Silver?"

The upturn in her tone at the end made her seem like Clara was asking Miranda and not trying to state a fact and set the woman straight. Maybe she was, because really, how do you describe a man like John fucking Silver and how you or he fit into each others lives? You don't, not adequately at least. Miranda slid closer once more, giving a last sweep of the cloth over Clara's cut and then dumping the used material into the copper pot with a wet plop. However, her eyes never left Clara's.

"You have your father's eyes, in more ways than one. Even when you lie, or maybe you haven't figured it out yet, the truth glitters there all the same."

Well, shit. What did that mean? She had told the truth, and as for not knowing yet or having not figured it out, what was there to figure out when it came to Silver? Theirs was a symbiotic relationship, she helps him, he helps her. Full stop, the end, curtains close. That was the bread and meat of it, and all it would ever be. At Clara's confused face, Miranda fluffed down her olive dress skirts, smiled brightly with pretty straight white teeth and hastily changed the subject, something Clara wasn't sure she was either happy or mad about. Clara pointedly chose to be happy about it.

"I'm glad you came today. I had hoped, truly hoped, after all, the date of today, but to actually see you here, after saying you would try. I... Thank you."

Clara brushed it off with a wave of her hand and a kick back in her chair. She had come here to get away from all the drama, plans, and emotions that smothered her, not to create new demons to cling to her chest and squeeze. It was her birthday, surely fate would just give her one day off from the shitty year she had? If not, well, she would force it to. Trying to break through the thick tension in the air that had descended upon them seemingly from nowhere, Clara tried to joke the whole thing off. It wasn't her best attempt, but thankfully it did the job.

"It was either here or Noonan's and that place doesn't smell as nice as here, or has as pleasant company as you. So where else would I go?"

Then Miranda was in movement, beckoning her out from her chair with amiable hands, pushing her towards the door of the kitchen, then turning back around and began to potter around the kitchen plucking out utensils pots from the cupboards and different ingredients, Some of which Clara had never seen before, let alone imagined they were real. What the hell was that purple and white round thing with the green things sprouting out the top of it?

"Well, let's get you a full meal, one I'm sure you haven't had at the beach. Some clean clothes, a hot bath, and some undisturbed sleep maybe? I highly doubt you had any doing... Whatever it is you've been doing."

And right then, Clara was thankful to Miranda more than the older woman could possibly realize. She hadn't questioned her about what she had been doing, just simply excepted she was up to something and didn't push for answers like everyone else would. And even if Miranda had have asked, Clara was sure she wouldn't have told her, the less Miranda knew, the safer she would be. Maybe she was already used to this type of situation due to her relationship with Flint.

As Miranda glided passed her, Clara reached out and snagged her by the arm, leaning over and planting a swift and chaste kiss to the woman's cheek, trying to convey her gratitude. From taking her in with the state she was in, to her open ears and the offering of food, sleep and a full stomach.

"That sounds like heaven. Thank you."

Miranda grinned at her, reached into her apron and pulled out a dish towel and flicked it in her direction, backing Clara up and out towards the door of the kitchen and out into the hallway. Clara laughed, holding her arms up to 'protect' her body from the flicks of cloth aimed at her. All of a sudden, Clara was hit with the nostalgic feeling of what if. What if she had have grown up with Miranda and Flint, in a manor, with her stomach always full,always happy, not struggling just to live?

Would there have been other times like these, little games and cheek thrown at each other? Would Clara had been happy with her life? No, because that meant no Mary Summerfield. And to Clara, without Mary in her life, or having not known Mary for the time she did, then through her eyes, that just wasn't worth the swap. Even if having Mary in her life meant she ended up here each and every time, she would take it. Mary Summerfield is... Was worth it all.

"Go on, to the front room with you! Rest and your food will be done soon, I don't need you getting under my feet like a hen clucking around."

Clara laughed, gave one last glance into the kitchen, watching Miranda busy herself over a large stove and pot and thought nothing more of it. It didn't really matter Miranda wasn't there in the beginning, she was here now and even if Clara's days were going to be cut short by this hunt for the Urca, she was happy she had spent her time left with her mother.

Making her way into the front room, a spacious thing with large windows that opened up onto green pastures, bookshelves lined with old leather tomes and velvet sofa's and chairs, one wall taken up by a stone fireplace, Clara floundered over to the nearest seat, a sofa, slid on and laid down. She felt... Peaceful here, in this house, hearing Miranda hum from the kitchen, the muted clang and thunk from cooking and reclining on a comfy well-loved seat. She had that same feeling settle on her chest, the one she only ever had back in the bakery in London when she had come back from a long day out. The feeling of coming home. The feeling _of_ home.

* * *

Clara must have fallen asleep after her food and a quick bath, for she could still feel the softness of the sofa cushion pressing into her face, the weight of a blanket on her body from where Miranda must have placed one after Clara had dosed off. In those few seconds of in between the land of sleep and awareness, Clara didn't know what had awoken her in the dead of night until she heard it again, this time fully snapping her back to reality like elastic. The quiet whoosh of painted wood sliding against painted wood and the clink of glass. A window being opened.

Blinking in the darkness, Clara stared at the windows down from her, near her feet and saw a shadow, masked by the thick night, bend down and slide one leg into the room she was in, body and head following suit. Fully awake now, knowing someone, likely unsavoury, was breaking into Miranda's house, in the room she had been slumbering in, Clara threw the blanket off from her, hopped up and charged at the shadow, bulldozing into it and slamming it into the free wall space by the side of the window, pinning it there with her forearm pressed tightly against its throat. Sky blue eyes met Clara's warm sea's ones, clashing against one another like tidal waves, and Clara was shocked when the stars above them, glittering into the room through the window, brought his face into the light, showing her just who had broken in.

John fucking Silver.

"Well, that was not the hello I was going for, but I suppose when it comes to you, a beggar can't be choosy. I'm just glad you don't have a dagger on hand."

Clara scoffed, pushing one last time into his neck to drive her annoyance at him home and pushed away from him, backing up a few steps. Of course out of all the people to find where she had gone, to have the audacity to follow and then throw a dig at her character, it would be Silver. How could she think anything but this would happen? She was stupid for coming here, allowing someone to know about Miranda, to get into her house, because what? It was her birthday and she didn't want to be alone?

"What are you doing here Silver? How on earth did you find this place?"

Silver grinned at her with his head tilted to the side as if to say 'did you expect anything less?', kicked off from the wall and straightened his cotton shirt out with a tug, glancing around the room they stood in. If he wasn't careful, despite their growing friendship, or whatever you wanted to call it, and Clara seeing him as one of the only few she could count on, she would still chuck him back out the window he had come sliding into. Maybe with a kick thrown in for good measure, just to make sure he understood where she stood on all these nightly visits he had no right in orchestrating.

"Well, I paid that hay carter to tell me. I don't suppose we would have time to talk with the Urca hunt coming so soon and you left rather quick last time with that mysterious warning left to linger in the air. What do you think a bloke such as myself would do in that situation?"

Glancing around the room, trotting to the living room door and peeping her head out to make sure Miranda was fast asleep, safe and unaware of what was going on, when Clara found everything as it should be, she turned back around, marched over to Silver, snagged the sleeve of his shirt and began dragging him to the front door of Miranda's they were outside, the night air rather chilly for once, and the door soundly locked behind them, Clara proceeded to drag Silver to the little shed, or barn, over the other side of the small water well in Miranda's front yard.

When she found the barn door unlocked and opened a slither, Clara pushed it open further, pushed Silver in and followed. Inside was a sight she didn't expect to greet her. A bed, small but with comfy and warm blankets thrown over it, was pushed up to the side, a make-sift desk with knives and weapons laid haphazardly on it and there was even an iron basket with ash at the bottom, in the corner of the barn, ready for a fire to be lit with logs stacked by its side.

Her best guess to this outside bedroom was it was of Flints making. Something he could get into when he came back to late to the house and the doors were locked, or he didn't want to disturb Miranda from her sleep or even a hidey hole he had created to slide into when he wanted to disappear for a few hours to clear his head. God knows she wanted one of those. Closing the barn door behind her with a clank, Clara whirled on Silver, this place was as good as any, and far enough away from Miranda so she wouldn't be caught up in this fuckery of a mess that was Clara's life now.

"You can't just show up whenever you want. I could have been with Vane for all you knew! Jesus Christ Silver, why are you looking at me like that?"

Silver grinned that grin that stroke up the urge to punch him every time she saw it, wondered over to the bed and plopped down, kicking his legs up and crossing his ankles and arms, back leaning against the barn wall behind him, looking for all the world he was comfortable and had no cares or worries.

"Well, I haven't seen you in clothes that fit before, I had almost forgotten you were female at all."

Clara gave a quick glance down to her clothes, the same Vane had given her but were freshly washed by Miranda, and then fixed herself. Silver was purposefully trying to wind her up, and unfortunately for him, today she was not in the mood to put up with it. Actually, when had she ever? Surely he should know better by now?

"Don't test me Silver, not today and after the last few days I've had. Why are you here?"

Silver scanned her, eyes landing and sticking on her black eye and cut cheek before carrying on their take of her. Clara shifted slightly but held true, determined she wouldn't let Silver just swan in, unsettle her and then swan back out like he so often did. Today was his turn for that treatment.

"I told you, you never finished your warning and it left me particularly curious. Plus, I doubt you got that black eye or cut from inventory counting inland like Rackham had told the Ranger Crew and everyone else who asked what you and Vane were doing in the days you were decidedly 'busy'."

Clara huffed in exasperation, this was going to be a long-winded conversation, one she didn't feel in the mood to dig into, not tonight of all nights. She had hoped to find him in the week following the lead up to the hunt and discuss this then, but Silver looked liked he wasn't planning to go anywhere anytime soon, and given that they were already alone, out of earshot and had time now, she may as well get this done and out the way.

Tiredly strolling over to the bed, Clara whacked Silvers leg with the back of her hand, silently asking him to move over and give her space. If he got to be comfortable through their conversation, then she should too and there was only one seat, the damned bed. Silver grinned wider, knowing he had won in their silent battle and shimmied over on the bed, leaving just enough room for Clara to slide in next to him.

It would be tight, but she was tired from being woken prematurely and the bed did look comfortable. As she clambered onto the bed, Clara had to partially turn on her side to be able to face Silver, Silver doing the same to create more space and simultaneously face her too.

"You need to find a new place to hide your share gold. Eleanor, I wouldn't put it passed her to try and nab it all. But she's not the main threat here, we're stealing from royalty John, they're going to come at some point and that fort will be the first place they will look. When we sail under the black, they will know which pirates have stolen from them, what with Flints and Vanes reputation. They'll follow them to Nassau and then it's game over for everyone. You and Flint need to find somewhere else to place your gold, but not alert Eleanor or the populous of Nassau to what you're doing before it's too late for her, or the Spanish, to act and stop you."

Silver searched her eyes and nodded when he saw how sincere she was, likely thinking along the same lines as she had since he had thought about getting the gold himself. Only an insipid blind person would underestimate Silver's intelligence or doubt he had a backup plan for his backup plans. Then he reached over, to her face, fingertips brushing against her cheek, thumb stroking over her under eye, making her wince and pull her head away harshly, forcing her to turn away from him. He pulled his hand away as if she had burned his palm with hot coals from a dying fire.

"And that eye, that's from... securing your own gold I suppose and not from a pissed off Captain that has caught wind that your warning people he thinks you shouldn't?"

Clara didn't know whether he was asking to guard himself encase Vane was raging and going to come for him gun cocked and ready, or if he was generally worried or curious. When it came to Silver, she wasn't sure she would ever understand his motives, and surprisingly, she was okay with that. She saw John, and he saw Clara, and really, if she was every going to tell anybody about what went down on that island willingly, what she had to do in that bamboo cage, it would always be John. She would only have to say one word and he would understand, she knew he would.

"Twelve."

Silver stilled beside her, and for a split second, she thought he was going to get up and walk away, never to look back again. She wouldn't blame him, for if she was he, in his seat staring at herself, she would definitely get up and run for it as fast as she could. After the bath she had earlier, she could barely stomach looking at her reflection in Miranda's gilded mirror when she had combed her hair, not liking what stared back at her.

She persevered, purposefully making herself stare at her reflection in the eye and combed her hair slowly, even if her lips had twisted into a semi-snarl. But, as always, Silver surprised her by unfreezing, sliding closer so she could feel his arm brush hers, reached down and grabbed her hand in his larger one, voice barely above a murmur.

"500 hundred passo's and a sunny beach. Just say the word and this... This is all behind us."

Clara didn't look up to meet Silver's eyes, instead staring at their hands, his tan clashing with her sunburnt pale, balancing the other out. Slowly, she turned her hand around, so Silver wasn't holding the back of her hand, and threaded her fingers through his, running her thumb idly over a small scar just underneath his thumb. It was comforting to hear that promise, but it was only a comfort. Both Clara and Silver knew they weren't turning their backs on this now, they were already in too deep, and both were unsure they would even survive backing out from deals with Vane and Flint respectively. So Clara joked, keeping that comforting empty promise as what it was, a day dream to snuggle into when the dark hit them. A pretty lie like back on Ludford's ship.

"With the promise of that much gold from the Urca hunt right under our noses? How could we refuse that? Maybe afterwards, when we're the richest paupers on this island."

Silver, like she knew he would, caught onto her tactic and squeezed her hand back reassuringly, once again promising her back. Only this time, they both knew they were as hollow as a coal mine.

"Afterwards."

Clara tried to hold it back, but her exhaustion and dilapidated emotional state was, and had caught up to her, and despite her fight against it, she yawned into the dark night around them, the only light coming from the glassless window of the barn near the open door lighting up the bed in a pale blue light.

"Well, I'll leave you to your beauty sleep. No doubt you're the type to get cranky when they have none. Though, it's hard to picture you any more cantankerous than you normally are."

Silver began to pull his hand away from hers, crouching up onto the balls of his feet to hop off the bottom of the bed, thankfully, instead of trying to hop over her and off the side of the bed, but before she could fully think things through, blaming her tired mind on her lack of actual thought process, Clara snapped her own hand out and grasped Silver's wrist. Then, as if that wasn't bad enough, as Silver's head turned to face her, her tongue decided to follow her minds suit and act without invitation.

"Stay. Please. It's my birthday... I don't really want to be alone right now..."

No, she really didn't. Because every time she was alone, that man, David's face flashed to the forefront of her mind and she swore she could feel herself twisting the non-existent chain tighter around his neck, that she could hear that horrid snap all over again. Whatever Silver saw swimming in her eyes, it must have been the deciding factor, for he gave her a slow nod, as if unsure and slid back into place beside her, and only when he was definitely seated and not going anywhere, did she let go of his wrist, not noticing how tightly she had been holding it until she had let go and felt the sting to her fingers from lack of blood in the extremities.

"Who am I to say no to the birthday girl? Get some sleep, you look like you need it. We'll talk more when you wake up."

Clara gave a shaky nod, not quite meeting Silver's eyes, not wanting to see her own weaknesses reflected back at her from their deep depths and turned to her side, facing away from Silver and snuggled down onto the bed, half her face buried into the plush pillow there, trying to hide. But she couldn't hide herself from herself, and damn, she was her biggest tormentor.

Just as her eyes were drooping shut, David's face nowhere in sight thankfully, Clara felt Silver snuggle down into the bed behind her. Then, as if hesitantly, she felt his heavy and warm arm slither over her waist, wrapping around her and pulling her back to his chest, his chin coming to a rest on the top of her head, buried in her curls. Clara didn't fight it, even wrapped her own arm around his, once again threading her fingers through his, halfway to the land of dreams herself.

Before either knew it, they were both slipping into the sweet abyss, side by side, back to chest, curled around one another. Yet again, not as Flint or Silver, not as fiery and feisty pirates daughter or silver-tongued manipulator, or even as two people trying to survive in the same place, but as John and Clara. Always John and Clara.

And when the sun rose and morning came like a thousand, million times before that day, when Clara awoke to Miranda shaking her shoulder gently and asking her what she was doing sleeping in the shed and if she felt alright.

When Clara thought she had dreamt the night before and miraculously sleep walked into the shed and not the well, she knew the truth when she saw Silver's ebony curls dart across the glassless window behind Miranda, accompanied by a grin, mischievousness that could only belong on Silver's face, and a flash of John's sky blue eyes before he disappeared from her sight, like a mirage her mind had conjured up to help her in the time she needed it most. Clara only smiled and nodded to Miranda's question. She felt good... Peaceful.

* * *

 _Four days later..._

"It's B-O-W , S-P-R-I-T. Bowsprit. Not, B-O-H, S-P-U-R-I-T. Come on Red, we've been over this seven times now... For four days! You can write well enough but your spelling is atrocious!"

Clara pushed back from being hunched over the table in front of her, in Rackham's tent, and threw her pencil down onto the table, groaning loudly. Of course, it was for show, a little act to prod Rackham further, so she had to hide her smile behind a hand. Rackham, bless his flamboyant and lively soul, was too easy to wind up, and unfortunately for him, she found it tremendously joyful to do so. Hence, the little game she was playing with him.

"What's the god damned difference? You say it and it sounds the same!"

Clara very nearly lost her composure and cracked up when Rackham huffed for the hundredth time, slammed shut the big book in his lap about boats with a bang and flung his sunglasses down onto the table, making them skid across the desk with a flutter of paper as he ran a tired hand down his face. If he was armed, instead of his gun and sword on the table on the other side of the room, Clara would have been worried he would try and blow a hole through her. But he wasn't armed, and she was having too much fun.

"When you write a letter to a man to fix a part of the ship, it helps if he understands what part you want fixing and not waste time spending hours looking for a make believe part! Try again, spell Hull."

Clara huffed, leaned back in her chair further, sagging down into it, crossed her legs and tried to look as if she was thinking as hard as she could, pulling a frown to her brows, a down twist to her lips and even staring blankly at the wall as she answered Rackham's question in what she hoped sounded like a hopeful tone.

"H-O-U-W-L. Hull."

Rackham's hands clenched into fists, red creeping up his neck and to his cheeks in anger as he glared at her. Just as she was about to laugh, and actually tell him she knew how to spell it, the tents flaps flipped open and Vane, followed by Anne in her signature hat and coat came strolling in, Vane eyeing the state of both Clara and Rackham with a disappointed look, eyes sticking to Rackham as he spoke in more of a growl than anything else.

"What the hell is wrong this time?"

"It's her, she's useless. She can't even spell Bow Charles, Bow! She's never going to learn and I'm wasting my precious time when I could be getting drunk or at Noonan's... Getting drunk!"

And there went her enjoyment, flying out the tents opened flaps. Useless was going too far, especially as she had been leading him on for the last two days in her 'stupidity'. Clara supposed it was game over now, time to get back to the real world and not see how much she could push Rackham before he exploded. Jack Rackham, despite her reservations about him in the beginning of their lessons, actually gave wonderful tutelage. And before she knew it, before the second day's sun had sunk into the sea, Clara could actually read and write all the words he had tried teaching her. She just... Hadn't let on she could. Of course, she still had a long way to go to be fully literate, but he had taught her a lot in the last few days and set her on the right path.

Pushing herself up from her seat, Clara re-grabbed her pencil, plucked up a blank piece of paper and began a sketch, very rough and basic, of the same diagram of the large ship Rackham had shown her from his big tome. When she had done her best job of that, shoddy compared to the one in the book, Clara wrote the names and words Rackham had been teaching her next to their respective parts. Once completely done, she bounced out of her seat and handed the paper to Rackham, who had been watching her warily as if she was about to pull a dagger out, and began reciting the words on the paper perfectly, all correctly spelled.

"Main topmast, yard, fore topmast, main topsail, fore topsail, Gaff, foremast, foresail, fore boom, fore stay sail, jib, flying jib, bow sprit, hull, mast step, forecastle, forecastle deck, main deck, hold, hatch, bulkhead, Captains cabin, rudder, main boom, quarter deck, shrouds, main mast, main sail, cannon, knife, sword, gun."

Rackham read through her paper, then re-read and finally looked up slowly to her, glaring fiercely as he found everything in the right place and spelled correctly, though, her handwriting was harsh, pointy and had much to be desired, but easily readable.

"We've been at this for seven hours and now you tell me you know it, and likely have for at least four of those hours? Why the hell would you do that?"

Clara grinned, dimples deep and cheeky as she reached over and patted him on the shoulder, passing him on her way to the entrance of the tent, planning on leaving to have a break now the jig was up, maybe even nab something from Noonan's to eat, speaking over her shoulder to him as she went to leave.

"When you get angry you flutter like a damned lady, going red in the face, flapping your hands around and using words three times too large to actually be words used in everyday conversation. It's as adorable as it is funny to see."

A large hand, wrist encased in leather bracelets, wrapped around her bicep and stopped her from leaving and proceeded to pull her back a few steps, making her stumble backward, back to the trio and back to Vane as he stared down at her, hand tight around her arm, the message loud and clear. She wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. Fuck.

"Now that you've had your games and wasted a good full day, it's time for training with Bonny. Let's see if you still want to play games, only with her."

Anne Bonny crept forward, smirking at her from under the rim of her large hat, making Clara feel quite uneasy at how inhuman it looked. Well, she only really had herself to blame, she doubted either Bonny or Vane would go easy on her after her little time wasting escapade with Rackham. But with that smirk aimed at her, well, it did not bode well for her health at all. Especially if one of them was going to be armed with a pointy and long blade, trying to 'teach' her.

"You know, I still don't think I have a hand of spelling, maybe I should stay here and learn some more, you know... Further my education and all that."

Rackham laughed at Clara's poor attempt to get out from what could likely be her death or a missing limb, and stood up with a flip of his embroidered, buckled and buttoned coat. Heading towards the door, it was his time to pat her amicable on the shoulder and speak to her as he passed for the entrance of the tent.

"Oh, I think as your teacher, you've grasped the concept and basics very well. There's nothing more I can teach you I'm afraid, but I'm sure you can learn plenty from Anne. If she doesn't kill you first, that is. Ta-ta now!"

Clara snarled and did the only thing she could do, which was to shout at Rackham's retreating back as he dipped under the tents doorway, hand holding the flap back, and strolled into the bright light of Nassau's sun.

"Fuck you, Jack!"

Just before Rackham left earshot completely, all three in the tent heard his groaned answer before he fully disappeared around another tent, likely on his way to Noonan's for a well-earned rum for putting up with Clara and her mindless prodding of him.

"Oh, Christ. Not you too."

Taking a deep breath to calm herself down and get ready for what was sure to come hurtling her way, Clara turned away from the exit of the tent and was still met with a smirking Anne. Almost on instinct, Clara went to take a step back, but Bonny was faster, pushing her shoulder blade and forcing Clara to the same exit Rackham had gone through. Clara's gut only sank further as Bonny spoke and Vane's smirk grew wider, both her and Bonny leaving him behind in Rackham's tent.

"Real lessons start now Red. Get the fuck ready cause you ain't playing no games with me girl, or you're going to lose a finger."

* * *

 _CLANG! BANG! SWISH! THUD_. Fuck, Clara thought as she landed on the sandy beach back first, sand cushioning the fall of her head. Two days... Two days of complete hell was what Clara had gone through. The first time Anne Bonny had handed her a sword, Clara had held it up, watching the sun glint off the metal prettily, Bonny had swept and bashed the sword right out of her hand with the handle of her own. Saying she had no hope of surviving if she couldn't even hold the god damned sword properly. The problem was, the difference between her and Rackham, was Rackham had told her what she was doing wrong and how to correct it. Anne Bonny simply told her to pick the sword up again, and when she did it wrong, bashed it from her hand and repeated the process.

Once Clara had finally managed to pick up and hold the sword the correct way, grip tight, but not too tight, in her thumb and first two fingers, the rest of her hand loosely wrapped around the hilt and thumb crossing over her two front fingers, wrist relaxed but in line with her forearm, Anne Bonny had told her to stand. Clara being the idiot she was, simply lifted the sword up in front of her, not changing stance at all, and for her efforts, got her legs kicked out from under her. Yet again, Bonny didn't tell her what she was doing wrong, simply told her to 'get the fuck up and try again'.

After hours of being knocked down, Clara had figured it out, balancing herself, spreading her weight and grounded it in her hips and knees instead of chest and feet, feet spread shoulder width apart, to stop herself from falling when Anne pounced on her. Next was which foot to point to the opponent, which happened to be on the same side as the arm holding your sword as Clara found out after she put the wrong one forward and had Anne stomp on it.

Walking, or moving with the sword was a whole different card game. After more falls to the floor, kicks to her legs, punches to her shoulders and near misses of Anne's sword cutting towards her, inches from piercing through and killing her, Clara got the hang of it. She had to be springy, light on the balls of her feet, joints loose but ready to bend whatever way she needed them too to get the hell out of Anne Bonny's sword slicing passed her.

It took her two days to get her to this point, actually clashing swords, two days of sun rise to sun set beatings and demeaning remarks. And once again, she was on her back with Anne above her. However, unlike the many times before, Anne didn't back off, no, she lunged with her sword blade aimed at Clara's head, forcing the younger and smaller girl to roll onto her front to miss the blade. However, some of her hair wasn't as lucky as the thin blade slid into the sand, cutting off some of her long and tangled locks.

Clara may have grown better than what she had been like in the beginning, spending more and more time on her feet, lunging and parrying rather than face first in the sand, but there was no way she was ever going to reach the expertise and grace Anne had with a sword in hand, and not in the remaining time they had left on Nassau, which was one more day as they set sail next night for the Urca. But that damned woman would not stop, wouldn't give her a break until Clara had pinned her with Clara's own sword at least once.

"Get up."

Clara sighed tiredly, hand scrambling in the sand for the handle of her sword, which she had dropped when she had been knocked to the floor. Bracing herself on the sand, one knee propped up and the other placed on the ground, Clara breathed heavily, sweating and aching from the beatings and Nassau's sun cooking her alive from up above. With a kick off from the sand, Clara stood, squared her shoulders, feet spread, one facing Anne and the other 45 degrees to her right, Clara raised her sword and got ready. She hardly had time, for as soon as the tip of her sword landed in the direction of Anne's chest, the woman lunged.

"Watch their movements, every sword fighter has a tick before they do a certain move, find it and use it Red!"

However, in a miraculous move, Clara on instinct threw her arm across her chest, sword tilted backward, guarding her chest as Anne's sword swung towards her, the two clashing with a cling and clang. Both were still for a second, likely shocked Clara had managed to full out block a move when Anne smirked that terrifying show of teeth and braced. Clara acted fast, just as Anne went to draw her sword back, Clara pushed forward, sword grinding against sword as Anne's was forced to swing to her side under the pressure. Clara danced away, backwards, but Anne followed, sword raising up as she shouted at her.

Clara twirled out of the way of Anne's sword, managing to fling her own down and to her side to block the swipe aimed at her legs. Anne attacked back with a downward sweep towards her head, making Clara grab her sword with two hands and hold it above her, guarding off the sword inches above her head with a ding of metal. Clara pushed Anne's sword back once more, this time keeping her sword in both hands.

"Come on Red, don't make me win again, it's getting boring now. Stop preferring your left side, it leaves your right open for attack and gives away that you're left handed, showing your opponent which is your stronger side."

Clara knew Anne was trying to piss her off, something she couldn't afford in a sword fight. She needed to keep her head clear, balanced and ready for anything. Clara lunged, this time, her swipe easily blocked off by Anne, but she wasn't expecting a hit. No, she was watching Anne's feet. And just as she thought she had seen before, Anne's right ankle in turned slightly, just a fraction, but enough to show she was going to swing with the weight of her right, which meant Clara should expect a right sided blow. Letting go with one hand still on her sword, her left, Just as Anne's sword was raising again, Clara switched her stance to match Anne's new one and acted before the older woman could. With a swing at Anne's now less guarded left, Clara forced Anne to guard against it and hop backward and out of the way of Clara's sword.

Clara smiled, she was actually attacking and not defending this time, and now that she had that advantage, she planned to use it. She still had one card up her sleeve, one Anne didn't know about and had taken for something else. Anne had guessed, and as educated as it was, it was the wrong guess. Yes, her left side was her strongest, but she wasn't left handed. As Anne blocked her attack and twisted her sword to go for her open right side, Clara grinned even wider when she found she had, in fact, tricked the woman into going for the attack Clara wanted her too. The sword came swooping towards her from the right, but Clara didn't use her sword to block it, she bent backwards, letting the blade just skim passed her, looked at Anne and threw her sword into her right hand, deftly catching it in her right hand and holding it properly, chuckling as she spoke.

"I'm not left-handed, I'm ambidextrous!"

Anne stalled at the swift swap of Clara's sword hand and before she could dodge, Clara sliced hers through the hand guard of Anne's sword, missing Anne's hand by a hair's breadth and pulled, sending Anne's sword out of her grip and sailing behind Clara, landing on the sand with a puff. But Clara wasn't finished. This only ended if Anne got pinned, so before Anne could righten her form, Clara lifted her leg up and kicked Bonny in the chest with everything she had, sending the woman crashing to the floor.

It was a dirty trick for sure, but it had worked and Clara was sure, as sure as the sun would rise tomorrow, that without using that trick, Anne would have kept winning. The woman was just too good otherwise, and if Clara had to win dirty to survive, by god she would play it the dirtiest.

Anne went to spring back up from being sprawled on the floor, but as her head rose, something sharp and metal pressed into her thin neck. Glancing down, Anne Bonny saw a sword, and running her gaze up and along the shining long blade, found Clara above her, smiling down at her, the sun just behind the red haired girl's head, giving her the look of having a halo of pure fire and sunlight. If Vane was worrying about her survival and usefulness on this expedition, he needn't too, Anne had the feeling you could throw Clara Flint to the sharks, only to have her come back riding astride one. Anne chuckled, smiling up at Clara and actually praised the girl, dusting herself off and coming to a stand.

"Playing dirty Red? I fucking like it. Keep it in mind, if it comes down to it, throw sand in their eyes, spit if you have to, just survive or go out swinging."

Clara smiled her thanks, slid her sword into the holster around her hips, one of three she had been gifted by Anne. One for her own Flintlock gun, a dark cherry wooden one with brass metal and a pouch of bullets. Another for her set of daggers, plain handles wrapped in blue leather strips for grip and comfort, and now the third and final one for her sword, which was made from simple silver hand guard and pommel and rustic red wooden handle. All of them simple compared to others, no decoration and made from simple materials, but inexplicable all Clara.

Clara strolled over to get Anne's sword, bending down to grab it, only for a large boot clad foot to stomp on the sword before she could pick it up. Glancing up she was met with Vane, who lifted his foot from the sword, slid it underneath and flung it upwards, grabbing the handle of the airborne sword before it began to drop. Clara scoffed and stood up fully, stubbornly ignoring the fact she had technically just bowed in front of Vane of all people.

"Is she ready for the sea? For the Urca?"

Anne came over and took the sword offered to her by Vane, sheathing it as she answered his question.

"Yeah, I'd say she's just about ready. Just a few more lesson's before nightfall on her daggers and-"

Vane cut her off, shaking his head as his hand came to rest on the handle of his gun strapped to his side, having to push the front of his jacket back to hold it.

"No time, Red will just have to improvise. Flints moved the time up, we set sail now. Flint's already docked and loaded up, men already on board, I doubt he'll wait much longer for us."

Clara went to argue, but Vane was already turning his back and marching to the small pier at the edge of the beach they were on, the Ranger crew already clambering onto small row boats to sail to the Ranger that was bobbing in the small waves of Nassau's port, Anne Bonny following him.

"But I don't know how to fight with daggers!"

Vane and Anne ignored her, carrying on their walk, but Clara felt a pat on her back and turned to her left, looking up to Rackham's bespectacled face, a smile etched onto his lips.

"Just stab and keep on stabbing, it's worked out wondrously well for me so far."

Shoulders sagging in defeat, Clara huffed and trailed after Vane and Anne, eventually catching up with the two with Rackham by her side. As Anne and Rackham slid and hopped into the spare four-man boat, Clara went to follow only to pause when Vane grabbed a hold of her shoulder, back to Rackham and Bonny as he leaned in close, whispering to her.

"Last chance Red, after this, there's no going back."

Clara searched his eyes with her own, trying to see if he was only saying it to try and get a liability off his ship. When she only found sincerity, Clara nodded briskly. Her winning against Anne in a sword fight wasn't a miracle, her learning to actually read and write fairly well with Rackham wasn't a miracle, she and Vane getting off from Cocos island with a deal and nothing but a few scraps and bruises wasn't a miracle. No, Clara surviving this hunt wouldn't be a miracle either.

She wouldn't turn back, not now and not ever. Her pride, her fate, herself, it was all her own making and she wouldn't let her own worry or unsurety mould that for her. She was her own king, her own god, her own judge, the only person she would have to answer too when night did come to claim her for eternity. When that time came, she wanted to say she had did her best, she had given it her all and had looked the devil in the eye and told him to fuck off. Pushing away from Vane, Clara skidded into the boat and sent a smile his way.

"I don't recall me ever saying I wanted to turn back."

She couldn't turn back because she was already too blood soaked, sin-stained and broken to do so.

* * *

 **NEXT CHAPTER:** A storm hits the crews of the Ranger and Walrus, Clara stomps herself a place amongst Vane's crew in the mist of cannon fire and flying wood and the hunt for the Urca goes down...

A.N: I don't know how many times I can say this and not sound repetitive, but really, I mean it every single time. A HUGE thank you to everyone who reads, follows, favourites and reviews this story. Without you wonderful readers, this fanfic would not exist. As always, if you have a minute or two to waste or spare, drop a review, they're life giving! - **GoWithTheFlo20**

 **CHAPTER NOTES**

 **Overview:**

This chapter isn't really filled with much intrigue or plot, but it does have its happy moments and a bit of a breather from the plot of this fic. This is important because it doesn't slow down. From next chapter, it's pretty much hit to hit from here and some dramatic and dark stuff goes down, including Clara's descent into pirate life and darkness. So, while the next chapters do have their 'happy' moments, they are filled with a lot more action and emotion more then anything else and I wanted Clara to have a good time while she could.

 **Vane didn't say... Or do much?**

Well, I know he didn't, but I wanted Clara to have some moments with Anne, Rackham, Miranda and Silver, because she wont be able to again for the next few chapters. Don't worry, Vane isn't going to fade into the background, but he can't be the focus every chapter either. So, while some chapters might be heavily involved with Vane, others will be with Silver and others with completely different Characters.

 **Fuck you Jack!**

I really couldn't stop myself from having Clara say the iconic Ranger term 'Fuck you Jack!' and not even realize she had done so. In a way, I think it fits. She's becoming a, for lack of a better word, important and close member of the Ranger crew, and her using that line sort of solidifies that. As for this fic, regarding Rackham's and Clara's relationship, especially in the future, they grow very close antagonistic (In a good way) sibling bonds. And this segment pretty much foreshadows that.

 **Silver the bed phantom that sneaks out of windows:**

To be honest, I didn't plan this chapter or segment to turn out that way, It just happened? Honestly, every time I write Silver, I have a plan sketched out of what I want to happen, and he takes it another way. They were originally just meant to talk and then Silver leaving, but he ended up staying. So I don't know if you would have preferred that version, but at last, this came out instead.

 **Poll & review results:**

Silver/Clara: 20 votes

Vane/Clara: 6 votes

Silver wins! It wont be a while yet, but if your looking forward to it, keep an eye out for chapter 20... cough cough... hint hint...

 **Ashebones or no Ashebones?**

Ashebones! To the reviewer who asked this, I too ship them, so yes they will be involved in this story, but in a middle-ground sort of way. Not completely renegaded to the background but not at the forefront either. But there's a few moments where they shine through, as Clara does play in heavily with her plot and Ned Low's.

The next update should be around Wednesday, but maybe next Sunday as I'm very busy this week. But it will definitely be out at some point in the week. Until then, stay beautiful! **-GoWithTheFlo20**


	17. Sea Salt and Cannon Smoke

Clara swayed back and forth as she sat on the thin stringed hammock in the bowels of the Ranger, wooden bowl containing... Something white and ominously lumpy in one hand, and still clean spoon housed in her other. The sparse candles that were lit around them were flickering, the sound of heavy waves crashing up to the sides of the ship with a whoosh and thump and the constant pounding of rain hitting above head was the continuous noise of the storm raging around them, loud enough to drown out a lot of the chatting men in the barracks. In short, it was the worst storm Clara had ever been through, and she was on a ship in the eye of it. So was her luck.

Hopping off her hammock, plonking the unused bowl filled with something the cook said was food and clean spoon on the spare barrel next to her 'bed', Clara made her way through the crew, the hammocks and the things littering her path to the large staircase that led up to the main deck. Clambering up the stairs, having to pause once to hold onto the bannister with a tight grip as the ship rolled to the side from the boisterous wind blowing around them, reaching the top, Clara's hand just unlocked the lock of the latch and was about to push it open when a man shouted from behind her.

"Girl... What the fuck do you think you're doing? I knew letting you on board was a mistake, Captain's been blinded by tits."

Clara glanced behind her and wasn't all that surprised by the face that greeted her with a snarl. Duncan Lewis. Vane had pointed him out when she had first stepped onto the Ranger, he was the first mate, just under Rackham who was the quarter master. Ever since that day, it seemed the man had it out for her, snarling, belittling her, whispering derogatory remarks at her from under his breath every time she was in his eyesight. It was one of the reasons she had to get out of here, even if to face a storm from the depths of hell, to get away from him and the rest of the crew, who thankfully mainly ignored her.

Clara turned back around, ignoring him and pushed the latch wide open with a swipe of her arm. Water pelted her in the face and chest, wind sending her curls flying around her, but she pushed on, climbing out and kicking the hatch door shut behind her with a forceful kick that spoke of her frustration.

Huddling in on herself, Clara tried to walk forward only to slip on the soaked wood, having to cling onto a dangling rope to stop herself from going over the side and into the raging sea. Clambering, slipping and sliding her way to the door under the quarter deck, encased either side by stairways, Clara finally managed to make it, hold onto dear life, twist the handle of the door and dive in, slamming the door behind her shut, her back pressed against it as she breathed heavily, soaked to the bone despite only having been outside for a few minutes at most and shivering from the cold.

"I'm surprised you made it this far, I would've thought the wind alone would've blown you overboard."

Clara's shoulders sagged as her breathing evened out, she pulled away from the door and plodded into the room with water clogged footsteps, leaving puddles in her wake, and towards the large desk that took up most of the room, Vane was perched behind it, book open in his hand, other paused over it, frozen in the act of turning the page. If she wasn't so grumpy or wet, she would have made a joke about him actually being able reading. But alas, she was, so she pulled the spare chair out opposite him, sank down and grumbled.

"Well, I'd rather take that chance than to stay bellow decks any longer than necessary, being blatantly ignored or sneered at. You're not going to ignore or snarl at me will you?"

Vane flicked his book shut, flung it onto the table, got up and strolled over to the bed, which was housed in a little alcove of the Captain's cabin, reached down to pluck up two well-worn blankets and made his way towards her. Once he arrived, Clara looked up as he unfolded one, wrapped it around her shoulders, almost gently, and then proceeded to dump the other on her head, over her dripping hair, nearly covering her face, before making his way back to his seat, making a pit stop at another desk to pluck up some rum.

"You and I both know you wouldn't let me ignore you even if I wished to. You just have to do something to show them you belong on this ship. Show them that they need you more than you need them. If not, well, rip them apart for all I care."

Clara wished Vane would settle on either being friendly and gentle with her, or... Well, being Vane. His mood swings gave her whiplash, god knows how he dealt with them. Clara watched as Vane kicked his legs up on the desk and drank from the rum bottle, offering her some with a tilt of it in her direction, one she shook her head at as she snuggled deeper into the pile of blankets around her, teeth finally stopping their chattering.

"No, I don't suppose I would let you. Show them they need me more than I need them? Easier said than done. Am I meant to do this while we ransack the Urca or before? Or perhaps before I die in this storm?"

Vane smirked at her and even graced her with an indulgent chuckle that rasped through the air, almost as warming as the blankets wrapped around her.

"See? You have plenty of opportunities to figure it out. And if you actually follow orders, for once, follow me and Rackham and do what we tell you to do, then you'll see next weeks sun rise."

Clara bit her tongue and held back the sharp retort on the tip of it. She had followed orders, especially back on Cocos island. It wasn't exactly her fault no one ever specified how she should follow them or how she should reach the end result, so she added her twist to it every now and again. She could dare a few fellows to walk in her shoes and know enough that most would falter. Instead of voicing all this, likely to get shirked off by Vane, she decided to pry onto what she really should be focusing on. The Urca.

"What is the plan? What do we do when we actually get the Urca in sight? Surely with that much gold on board, they'll be weary of any other ship in their path?"

Vane deposited his drink back onto the table with a thunk of glass on wood and once again stood, only to come around the desk to the side of her, leaning back on the wood and crossing his arms over his chest as he spoke, idly looking around the room and not to her.

"We will likely pose as traders ran afoul of pirates, when the Urca pulls far enough away, we'll flank it, open fire and the rest will be the rest."

Rest. What a... A Civilized and simplified version of speaking of death, for death was nothing as calm, as simple or as predictable as the word rest used to describe it. When the Urca was in sight, when they boarded the ship like Flint boarded captain Ludford's, how many men and souls would she put to rest? Clara shuffled uncomfortably from under the ruffle of blankets, curling tighter in on herself, pushing that thought as far out from her mind as she possibly could.

"So, all I need to do is listen to you and follow? Easy."

Vane chuckled again, sending that same warmth her way that was equally as welcoming as it was confusing. He shook his head as he glanced at the ceiling, as if looking to god, and kicked off from the desk to prowl towards the door of the Captain's cabin. Clara didn't blame him for his amusement at her statement, both she and he knew how hard it was for Clara to follow authority, in fact, Clara was sure a blind and deaf man could feel her distaste for it.

"Somehow, some way, I already know you're going to do nothing of the sort. Stay here for the night, take my bed, I need to talk to Rackham and check the weaponry. Tomorrow, when the storm passes, I'll be heading over to the Walrus to talk over plans with Captain Flint. Behave while I'm gone, I don't want to come back to your stabbed or hung body... Or more than likely, other members of my crew who have landed on the wrong side of your temperament."

Vane gave her one last glance over his shoulder as his hand rested on the door handle, one Clara returned from peeping outside of her blankets. Before she could argue about taking his bed, he opened the door with a twist of his wrist and slipped through into the raging storm, the door closing soundly behind him. Clara stared at the door for a moment more before turning around and taking a gander at the Captain's cabin... Vane's room, alone, heading straight towards what would either be bloody death or golden glory.

* * *

Clara stood on the forecastle deck, right at the very front, hands braced against the railing, hair dancing behind her as the wind blew passed her, staring out at sea, her gaze every now and again shifting to her right to take in the sister ship sailing right by their side. The Walrus. Despite the cooling and soft breeze cooling her flushed skin, the sun shining above her head, no storm cloud in sight despite the three nights prior storm, what the crew called a 'ship wrecker', a frown was pulling and drawing at her brows and lips.

Vane had still not returned. Two days he had been gone, over on the Walrus doing god knows what, and not a single word or glance of him since. It unsettled Clara, so unbelievably shaking her and giving her a dreaded thrill in her spine. Rackham was more than adequate in running the Ranger, don't get her wrong, but he was no Vane and with every day they were sailing, they were drawing closer to the Urca... With no Captain aboard. It didn't sit right with Clara, not one bit.

"What do you think is happening over there?"

Clara asked as she turned away from the front, spinning to face her left, where Rackham was leaning against the railing, staring at the Walrus just like she had been, only not making any attempt to hide it like she had. The Ranger crew was bustling around them, bellow them on the other decks and in the holdings, readying for the oncoming fight with a fire like enthusiasm that could not be contained. Anne bonny had been with her and Rackham a few moments ago but had left to keep an eye on the more, as she called them, lively lads.

"Well either Vane has killed Flint, or Flint has killed Vane. When it comes to those two, I really wouldn't be surprised about either outcome."

Clara could tell he was pulling her strings, trying to gain a reaction by the smirk he sent her way, but she found no humour in the picture he painted and he too clocked on when she glowered at him with a twist of her lips and a heat to her eyes. Unfortunately, in their time aboard the Ranger, Rackham had grown used to her temper and simply grinned wider, knowing he had won this one. Fucker.

"Ah, forgive me Red, my mind slips me sometimes. Flint being your father and all, it can't be a pretty painting to gaze at. They're likely still ironing out the plan. If Vane isn't back tonight, we'll send more men over to see what has happened. Until then, we follow the plan Vane has given us. We are merchant traders simply wanting passage to the nearest land to rest up before we set sail once more. Stop fretting, you'll get wrinkles."

Rackham unfolded his arms and reached over, flicking her between her brows where she was heavily frowning at this point. Clara scoffed and batted his hand away playfully. Rackham liked to wind her up as much as she liked to do so to him, but he knew when to back off, when to put her at ease, especially when it came to her worrying. Right now, on this ship, she couldn't help but feel like something had already fucked up monumentally, and by Rackham's backtracking, he could tell she thought and felt such a way.

If she were to call anyone a friend since her arrival on Nassau, disregarding whatever the fuck Silver was to her that she lazily labelled as a friend, then it would be the man standing right in front of her in his extravagant coat and scarf despite the climbing heat. Jack Rackham, if she was inclined to do so and open up, she would dare anyone to get to know the man and then have something bad to say about him or not come to the same conclusion she had. Shouting, more like an undignified squawking in reality, brought her out of her thoughts and jolted both her and Rackham out of the easy and friendly air they had bubbled themselves in.

Clara and Rackham span to around simultaneously, facing the man balancing on the lower decks ropes and nets, long spyglass pressed tightly to his one good eye. In a flutter and a few near misses, he scuttled down the shroud and scrambled for them, talking as he did so, out of breath and sweating heavily as he came to the forecastle deck.

"A ship! Rackham, there's a ship on the horizon!"

Rackham swore under his breath, charged for the bent over man who was trying to catch his breath with wheezes and coughs, snatched the spyglass and faced the direction the man had been searching, just over the other side of the Walrus. Clara froze for a moment, before following Rackham to the side of the ship, stopping at his side, just behind him and squinted as she tried to see without the luxury of the spyglass Rackham was currently using.

Clara couldn't see much, not with her naked eye, the sun and the Walrus blocking most of her eye line, but even so, she could definitely see something just before the horizon, a blob of ink that looked to be growing bigger. This time, when Rackham cursed, it was loud and jarringly out of character for him as he flung the spyglass down and then spoke dazedly, only to snap out of it and get into a flustered frenzy that Clara didn't find any humour in this time, despite his flapping hands that looked like they belonged better on a rich lady of court than an outlawed man.

"Man'o'war... Their's a fucking man'o'war on our tail!"

Clara wouldn't lie and pretend she knew what this man'o'war was, but by Rackham's reaction to it, the way the man behind them had stopped wheezing and seemed to choke on his spit, she would hazard a guess and say this was not the news they wanted.

"Man of war? What's a man of war?"

Rackham gave her a quick glance, nothing more than a flicker of his eyes to her face before they were snapped back to that spot in the distance and predominately stayed there. Clara reached over and gently touched his arm, fully drawing his attention this time and thankfully the normally energetic man was back in movement rather than stone stillness, shouting at the crew as he plucked up her arm and dragged her down to the main deck with him

"Get ready! Load the cannons, get everything below deck, bolster up! There's a man'o'war heading our way!"

Everyone stilled for a moment then hell broke loose on the Ranger, men running, shouting, zipping and zapping over the place, some even climbing the mast's and nets to the sails. Then, as if Clara wasn't already confused, weary and cautious as it was, Rackham span around and held her by her shoulders, looking her squarely in the face, no smile even hinted at, and Clara thought that was the worst of it. She had never seen Rackham without a smile before.

"A man'o'war Clara, is a ship we really shouldn't face, even with the Walrus to back us up if the need called for it, which it definitely will. A hundred cannon on board at least, armed men, explosives... God, the list goes on and there's no time to try and out sail it, for it's already spotted us and is currently heading our way with the wind at its back to pick up speed. The Walrus isn't doing anything and with their position, they would have already seen it. Which means we are not trying to outrun it. This does not bode well. Not well at all!"

Clara glanced behind Rackham, looking over his shoulder, to stare at the dot that had grown larger since her last look, or her imagination was torturing her. She knew the Ranger had about twenty cannon on board, the Walrus maybe thirty, at a push. Fifty cannon against one hundred, they were at least double out gunned... They were fucked. If a fight did break out, which Rackham was telling her was a real possibility with both ships not even trying to sail off and away from the monstrous ship heading their way, they would be no match. Clara swallowed deeply, that strum of dread building in tempo at the base of her spine and spluttered her question.

"What do we do?"

Rackham gave her a smile, but Clara called it what it was in truth, a poor attempt to calm the red head down from the heights she was scaling. Still, she was grateful he had at least tried.

"We follow the plan. Stick close to me, don't stray from my side one step. If you believe what I do, that man'o'war could very well be an escort for the Urca, mapping out its course to make sure it doesn't run into... unsavoury sailors or ships. Which gives us only one option as we are not retreating. We fight. But smartly, always fight with your brain Clara, if I ever teach you one thing, let it be that."

Clara gave a harsh nod, kicking away the dread that wanted to take her over. She had faced David, a man ten times her size and god knows how much stronger, she had come out of it relatively okay, if you didn't take her emotions into account. If she could do that, surely the Ranger could and would do the same. Rackham patted her shoulder and pulled away, marching over to the side of the deck, looking out and over the railing, and with determined and heavy steps, Clara followed.

* * *

Clara pulled her knees closer to her chest, wrapping her arms around them as she turned her head, her cheek pressing into the cool, hardwood that was at her back as she hid from view. Rackham's legs blocked her view from her vantage point of sitting by his feet, huddling into the ship, trying to stay hidden from the man'o'war that had come sailing their way, coming to a stop between the Ranger and the Walrus, successfully splitting the two from each other.

She could hear shouting, distant, undistinguishable and muffled, originating from the man'o'war and something behind it, which she guessed was the Walrus. However, there had been no bang and rattles of cannon fire, no bloody screaming and no crunch of wood breaking, which had to count for something. Either the man'o'war was playing a game with them while conversing with the Walrus, or they really hadn't clocked on to what the two ships were, what the crews were and what they had been planning on doing.

All grew silent for a while, and Clara could see Rackham's legs tense, however shouting rang out, just one voice, clearer and closer this time and Clara watched as Rackham's tensed form relaxed a smidgen. It was hopeless for Clara to try and listen in as Rackham answered, the words wrapped in foreign rolls of the tongue and alien consonants. If she had to guess, she would guess both Rackham and who she believed to be the Captain of the man'o'war was speaking Spanish.

Although, her guessing was cut short as Rackham began walking away, forcing Clara to follow on her hands and knees to keep hidden like Rackham had asked her to. When she caught up, she snapped her hand out and tugged harshly on his trouser leg, glancing up with wide eyes at Rackham when he stopped and glanced down.

"What is going on?"

"We're following the man'o'war. The Walrus has told them we've been hounded by pirates and our ship needs an escort. When we pull just enough away from the Walrus, we pull ahead, we box it in on both sides, turn on our flanks and then open fire before that ship can take action. Or, at least, I hope that is what the Walrus has planned to do with asking the man'o'war to escort us and not chucked us to the sharks, so to speak. You can stand up now Red."

Clara sighed deeply and grabbed a hold of the railing of the ship, hoisting herself up and coming to a stand in front of Rackham. Before she had fully gotten to her feet however, Rackham was already marching of with a flare of his coat tails and ordering the crew to get ready, telling Duncan to take the wheel, to steer and keep close to the man'o'war but to slowly pull in front of it, leaving Clara behind without so much of a backward glance.

Clara played the dutiful crew member, following Rackham around the decks like she was his shadow for longer than she wanted to give credit to, but her head was not where it should be, instead caught up with all the wrongs that had happened. They had no clear plan, not even knowing what the Walrus was planning, just a well-aimed guess from an incredibly smart man. They had no Vane on board, no Captain to lead the men and now? Now they were being separated from the Walrus.

However, Clara realized, the only valuable reason the man'o'war would offer to escort them, being a warship after all with probably more pressing duties, was to get them out of the way... To get them out of the path of the Urca, which meant it was here, or passing here in the next few hours. Which also meant they would have to take it out, completely, to get at the Urca. They wouldn't be able to take the both on, not at the same time, and they were already pushing their luck majorly by taking on this man'o'war in the first place.

"Fuck!"

Rackham finally stopped his barking orders to send a sardonic smile her way at her outburst.

"Fuck indeed Red. Duncan, pick up more speed, slowly now, that's it. When I say turn, you turn!"

Clara ignored the grim and hard look Duncan sent her when he noticed her standing behind Rackham and chose to follow the man once again as he was in movement, strolling up the steps to the forecastle deck. Rackham reached for his belt, picking out the spyglass and peeped through it. Although, Clara lost what hope she had of a good sign coming their way when his arm fell to his side and he swore.

"I can't see the Walrus from behind the man'o'war. Which means we don't know if they are turning or not... Wait!"

Rackham quickly brought the spyglass back up and smiled at what he saw. More than a little edgy, Clara didn't wait for him to tell her and instead snatched the spyglass from him and took a look for herself in the direction he had. Rackham's smile was soon joined by Clara's dimpled one as she saw peeping out, just behind the man'o'war, the bowsprit and a slither of the hull of the Walrus peek out from the man'o'wars left flank. That could mean only one thing, Rackham had guessed right and the Walrus had turned to bare its side to the man'o'war, where most of its cannon was held.

"Pick up more speed and begin to turn when I give the word!"

Rackham shouted to the men bellow him, running to the stairs and back down to the main deck once more, Clara following with rushed steps, nearly falling down the stairs in her clumsy actions. Rushing over to Rackham, dodging the men running around, Clara came to a blundering halt at the decks railing, holding the wood tightly as she and Rackham stared out at the side that would face the man'o'war when they eventually did turn.

Clara's heart painfully squeezed in her chest, one beat almost blending into the next with how fast it was going. Clara had to keep telling herself why she was doing this, why it was important, what her end goal was. However, she only calmed when she mentally pictured Flint's face, Silver's face, Vane's face, Mary's and Miranda's faces, and her lost friends face. The last one she held onto longer, savouring it, trying to bring it into full clarity. If she succeeded, if she lived passed this, then this was for everyone like him. There would be no more losing loved ones, no lost brothers that were there one day and gone the next without so much as a whisper. However, there was still something nagging at the base of her skull, telling her to run. Her gut practically screaming, and it was only as they pulled further away that she noticed what it was. The silence.

"Something is wrong... The Walrus, it isn't firing while we have the hull and back to us, the man'o'wars soft spots... Why aren't they firing Jack?"

It would be safer, easier to fire now before the man'o'war could turn and bare their cannon ladled flanks to the Walrus and the Ranger, pelting them with a hailstorm of cannon balls. By the worried frown thrown her way from Rackham, he had thought the same too. What was really the knot in the wood of their plan though was they were still sailing, still distancing themselves and the man'o'war from the Walrus, getting further and further away and subsequently out of the Walrus's firing range and capabilities with every passing second. What the fuck was happening, or already happened on that ship?

"Abort! Stop while we still can!"

Rackham turned towards her, but as he opened his mouth to speak, he was cut off with a bang and a splash. They both snapped and gazed at the man'o'war, but realized it wasn't them as no smoke was rising off it and they wouldn't fire at nothing... Which meant it was the Walrus, and by the splash, they had gone and sailed out of its range.

They had missed, the Walrus had missed and now the man'o'war would know what they were up to. Their one advantage, the advantage of surprise was well and truly blown, like ash in the wind. Clara could only horrifiedly watch as the man'o'war began to turn, beginning to bare its sides, holes appearing on its side as the cannon were rolled out. Rackham kept hold of the railing, watching the man'o'war like Clara, but frantically shouted to the men behind him, to Duncan.

"Too late. Turn! Turn! Turn now and do it fucking quickly!"

But fate was a bitch who loved irony, and as the Walrus was too late to fire, Rackham was too late in his ordering to turn for as they did, the man'o'war was already in position and moments away from firing at them. Just as the side and deck they were standing on was flush in the direction of the man'o'war, it let loose with a culmination of what seemed like a thousand of bangs of cannon going off. Clara froze as she saw white plumes of smoke rise off and out of the man'o'war, balls of flashing silver zooming towards them. Right towards them... as in her and Rackham and the very railing and ground they stood on.

Clara's brain shut off, going completely blank and her instincts took over, or something other did as what she did next wasn't really in the realm of self-preservation like her instincts often led her to. Spinning around, Clara grabbed Rackham by the lapels of his coat in a fisted grip and flung and pushed with everything she had, which was stronger than what it should have been. Dazedly, as if in a foggy dream, she watched as Rackham flew backward, skidding into the mast, his eyes locked onto hers, wide and filled with what she would later understand and name as fear, fear of what was behind her, seconds away from engulfing her.

However, he smashed into the mast with force, hitting his head on the thick and heavy wood, falling to the floor unconscious as his eyes finally broke from hers and flickered shut. Clara wasn't so lucky, she never was, and a heartbeat later an ear-splitting crack and groaning tear rang out through the air, from behind her. The railing behind her, the deck under her feet splintered and blew apart with a scream.

She had no time to look behind her, not even enough to start to turn around, as the force of the explosion, of the cannon fire hitting where they had stood, sent her flying of her feet and through the air, suffocating in mist of smoke, large and small chunks of wood raining around hit her and by the time gravity had regained control over her, Clara was unconscious too, wood flying around her, landing on her crumpled form. The pain in her body and the terrifying scream of dying men around her being the last thing she could recall.

* * *

The first thing to come back to Clara was her breath as she coughed violently and wheezed, the taste of smoke coating her tongue and throat, making it hard for her to swallow let alone breath. Blearily, she blinked awake, only to grimace as her eyes stung at the smoke around her, watering from her coughing fit. However, Clara tried her best to ignore it all as she tried to sit herself up, flinging wood of her, some larger splinters taking longer to heave off from her body. When she was free, Clara went to stand only to cry out and flop back to the floor as her right leg gave out and vicious pain shot up her spine, almost rattling her skull.

Pressing her hand into her thigh, where the horrid pain came from, her shaking palm came away startling crimson. Her eyesight was still bleary, unfocused and there was a terrifying ringing to her eyes, but that didn't stop her from realizing what had happened, and to finally take notice of the large skewer of broken wood that was stabbed into her thigh, piercing the deck and successfully pinning her to the deck.

Touching the wood sticking out of her leg wasn't an option, not while she was still profusely bleeding, so, almost on autopilot, Clara reached up to her shirt sleeve and tore the material free from the rest of her shirt. with shaking limbs, Clara managed to jostle the taunt material she had pulled tight between her fists under her leg and tied it off around her thigh, above the wound and skewer, double knotting it to make sure it was secure and as tight as it could be.

She was no doctor, not sure if this would even work and she wouldn't bleed out in seconds after, but it was her only option if she wanted to stand again. Breathing deeply, Clara finally grabbed a hold of the wood implanted in her leg with both hands, mentally counted down from three and yanked as hard as she could. Screaming loudly as the wood slid free but ripped its way back out of her leg, surely leaving splinters behind in the impressive open wound.

Flopping back to the deck, her head banging on the floor, Clara bit into her wrist, teeth sinking into the flesh, to stop herself from screaming anymore than she already had. She felt breathless, shaky, dizzy and seconds away from throwing up the entirety of her stomach contents. As the minutes ticked by, as her head cleared from the pain and vertigo fogging it, Clara began to hear the noise around her instead of that terrible ringing. Screams, shouts, bangs and thuds bombarded her senses, bringing her out of the fog that was drowning her. The ship... They were under attack... she had gone flying through the air after pushing Rackham away... Rackham!

Using her arms to push herself up into a sitting position, Clara looked around her, seeing silhouettes of men running around her but she had no time to take it in, she needed to find Rackham, she needed to make sure he was alright. Using a dangling rope near her, the edges frayed and burnt from being torn, Clara reached up and grappled with it, almost screaming again when her weight shifted onto her bummed leg and she pulled herself to a stand.

But she persevered with an iron wrought will, clinging onto the ropes and masts, anything really to balance herself and stop herself from using her lame leg and falling to the floor. Clara hustled and limped her way to the mast she had last seen Rackham. When she eventually got there, she saw someone with dark auburn hair squatting over someone laying prone on the floor, the figure obscuring the top half, but Clara would know that flare of coat spread around the form on the floor anywhere and those long dark red tresses. Jack Rackham and Anne Bonny.

Clara slid, limped and haggled her way to the two, grunting in pain as she began to use her leg in her haste to get to them. When she got there, she fell to her good knee next to Anne, hissing in pain as her other leg throbbed at her poor treatment of it. Glancing at Rackham, he simply looked to be asleep, apart from the thin trail of blood running down his forehead and grazing the top of his cheek. Anne's hold on her sword hardened, only to slack when she saw it was Clara beside her, and Clara took her chance and shouted to the older woman over the continuous cannon fire and echoing screams.

"What are we going to do Bonny? Vane's fucking missing, Rackham's unconscious and we're seconds away from being blown to smithereens!"

Anne simply shook her head as the boat rocked violently as more cannon fire pounded them in unison. Both Anne and Clara had to grapple and brace to keep stable, ducking as more debris went flying above their heads. However, as Clara had come to notice, Anne's first concern was Rackham as the woman grabbed hold of him and shielded his prone body from any wayward wood.

Clara knew it was useless right then, Anne wouldn't take charge no matter what Clara could say to her, she would be too focused on Rackham and his safety to do anything of importance or lead them out of this mess. Anne loved Rackham, the most deeply than Clara had ever seen someone love another. Clara wouldn't come between that, not now, not ever, not in the middle of what could very well be their death.

Even if doing this would leave her in the open, unguarded and likely dead at the end, after all, her chances of survival weren't looking that great right now either. Clara steeled herself, locked away her own emotions and forced herself to be as blank as possible as she grabbed Anne's shoulder, making the woman snap towards her.

"Get him and you bellow deck! He'll be safer there and out of the way!"

Clara knew not to bring up Anne's own safety, knowing that if she did, the older woman would likely stay just to spite her and put them all at risk. No, Anne and Rackham came as a package deal, splitting them wasn't an option and deep down, Clara wanted, no needed, them to both see the end of this, to stay alive. She... She cared for them. More than was comfortable in the life and situation Clara was currently involved in.

Thankfully, Anne nodded and bent down, holstering Rackham's limp form onto her shoulder and started dragging him to the door that lead bellow deck, still crouched and keeping low from the cannon fire. Clara watched them leave, wondering why she wasn't trying to follow them. Well, that was a lie. Clara had never turned away from a fight, this was no different. She would see it through, or die trying to. Only when they had disappeared fully did Clara take a look around her, using the mast to bring herself to a stand and stare around her as the Ranger rocked back and forth, people dying around her horrifically, shouting, still fighting.

Clara went to take a step forward to grab a hold of another rope to help her get further along the ship when she was forced to stumble backward, leg shouting its protest, as Duncan ran passed her, screaming at the crew as he came to the ships wheel, snagging the spokes in fists.

"Retreat! Stop firing and get ready to sail! We're getting the hell out of here!"

Clara froze to the deck. The first mate wanted to... Run? Now? After they had already spilled blood, lost lives? It was too fucking late to run now! Clara couldn't let that happen, not for the gold, but for her father, Flint, for Silver and god damned Vane that was still on the Walrus, getting a beating just like they were. She couldn't leave them behind to face that fate alone. She couldn't let anyone let them face that fate alone because they wanted to save their own arse. She would not be responsible for their deaths because of a dose of cowardice from a pitiful man. She knew what she had to do, and as dark and demented it was of her to admit it, she was going to fucking enjoy this.

Just as the crew began to follow his orders, Clara pushed off from the mast, limping up and towards Duncan, refusing to ease the weight of her damaged leg, that would show weakness, and right now, even a hint of it coming from her would be disastrous. A few steps away from the man, Clara unsheathed her dagger, held it tightly and crept forward. Getting to him, she placed her hand on his shoulder, making the man jump and spin to face her. If she was going to do this, she would do it facing him, looking into his eyes and not at the back of his skull like some coward.

"No. I may have tits, but I'm obviously more of a man then you will ever be."

Using her hand on his shoulder, she simultaneously pulled him closer and thrust her dagger forward, feeling it slice through his chest cleanly. He spluttered, blood bubbling out of his mouth and specks and drops landing on Clara's face as she held him close and twisted the dagger in deeper, snarling as she did so.

Finally, he grew still and floppy, falling to the floor in a heap at Clara's feet. She didn't look down once he had fallen, instead, acting like he wasn't there and stepped over the body blocking her way, towards the crew that was facing and watching her with alarm. She had, after all, just did a mutinous act of killing the first mate, in front of the majority of the Ranger crew, who technically was Captain with Vane and Rackham down and out.

When she shouted over the roar of the battle happening around them, her tone was clear, undaunted and loud, words coming spilling forth that she didn't know she housed inside of her, drawing the attention of every person nearby who had not just witnessed her stabbing of Duncan, addressing everyone who would listen.

"He was a coward! Preparing to leave in the midst of battle, tail tucked between his legs like an animal, abandoning your... Our Captain that is on that ship! Abandoning my father that is on that ship! Abandoning Your... Our brothers that are currently dying over there, for what? His own worthless life! You want to run like little boys to their mother's teets because of some loud noise and a bit of blood? Are we pirates or not? We live on the sea, we breath the sea, we are the sea! And no one, NO ONE forces us to flee from it! It's not us that need to run, but those on that ship that have slaughtered our brethren! This is our moment, are we going to let it pass because some of you have weak hearts and stomachs? Are you really going to prove yourselves less of men than the tiny girl that stands in front of you now? We fight with everything we have until the sea either takes us or them! Who is with me?!"

Everything was deadly silent, the rage of battle fading to the background as the crew stared at her wide eyed. Then, like a phantom, Gareth, the one man on the Ranger, the man who came and talked and gave her food when she was sequestered in Vanes tent, apart from Vane, Rackham, and Bonny, that had treated her well, looked to her as an equal, stepped forward and raised his fist into the air, shouting as he turned to face the crew.

"Fight!"

Silence rained down upon them, then, by some marvellous miracle, the crew members of the Ranger stepped forward one by one, fist raised, a mantra of 'Fight, fight, fight!" creating a chorus of bravado and will to crash around them, strengthen them from the inside out, all hell-fire and brimstone. When they settled back down, Gareth was the one to turn and face her again, breaking the silence irrevocably.

"What shall our course be Flint?"

Clara was dumbfounded by Gareth's question, it taking a few moments to sink in he was actually speaking to her and not someone behind her. Everyone was watching her, looking at her with expectant gazes, looking to her for guidance, as if... As if she was their Captain. It was confusing, unsettling, heady and by god did it feel good. For the first time in her life, she was the one being followed, not doing the following.

Clara slowly turned to face the place she had been blown away from, idly wondering if that Clara had died and a new one had taken her place, a different, stronger her who had stood up from the rubble. A phoenix born in sea salt and cannon smoke. Glancing to the man'o'war that was still firing at them, the men bellow deck firing back, Clara began to formulate a plan. A risky one, one likely to fail, but it could work. And that was all she had to cling onto. With Flints help, if he was still alive and figured out what she was doing in time, if Vane and Silver, who knew her sometimes better than herself, still breathed, it could very well work. The cannon they had was obviously not working, but that was not the only weapon they had. No, they were all currently standing on the best weapon they had. The ship.

Clara stood up straighter, the pain in her leg lessening either due to blood loss, shock or hidden under the weight of the responsibility of these men's lives that had been suddenly dropped onto her thin shoulders, it didn't matter as she turned back to the Ranger crew and began giving out orders.

"Get everything heavy, some cannon, spare wood, everything we don't absolutely need for weaponry or isn't bolted down and fortify the hull from the inside. Everything we don't need, throw overboard! We need to be as light as possible but with the hull as guarded as possible! Gareth can you steer?"

Gareth gave her a solemn nod but oddly accompanied by his own smirk, and Clara grinned at him as he charged for the ships wheel. In this moment she wasn't like a Captain, she was Captain, and by god would she not fail now. The taste of power, knowing people looked at you, waited upon you was heady and sweet on her tongue. The Ranger crew dispersed, jogging off in all different directions to carry out her order, to pass along the order to the ones bellow them in the holdings. Standing by the Wheel, Clara turned to face Gareth, who was already at the ready for action at a moments notice. With a fire to her eyes, blazing and climbing and burning everything else that had ever been playing in her eyes, with more than a touch of heated madness to them, bloodied and hurt, but feeling the most alive she ever had, Clara grinned and spoke to him.

"Good, sail us away, in the way we were sailing before we turned on our flank to fight! Keep going until I give the order, then turn fully back around until our hull is pointed at the man'o'war, but aimed at its own hull and bowsprit. You! Yeah, you with the hat, turn the sails 45 degrees to the west! What are you waiting for? GO! Gareth, sail us away now!"

And then, they were 'retreating'. Vane's soothing tone and words echoing in her head... _If not, well, rip them apart for all I care._

* * *

Silver, sweating and tied to the mast by his wrists, jiggled and pulled at the ropes restraining him once more. If someone that morning had told him he would be tied up with Vane and fucking Flint on either side of them, he would have asked them to check the rum they were drinking.

However, everything had gone down hill in startling speed. Flint had killed Gates, after the man had tried to put a halt on his plan for attacking the man'o'war, Flint being convinced that the ship was an escort for the Urca, only to stroke up a mutiny by his actions with the Walrus crew who were already planning on disposing Flint as Captain after the hunt. It also didn't help the red-headed man's case that most believed he was the culprit in Billy's untimely death.

Silver, after getting out of that holding cell, with the help of Randall of all people, had seen their chance sailing away, quite in agreement with the man'o'war being the escort to the Urca, it was just too coincidental for it to be in this exact spot at this time, and Silver didn't believe in coincidences, and took action to secure his place on the Walrus and prove he had been right about the location of the Urca. However, Defrasne and the rest of the Walrus crew saw his trick of firing the cannon as a death sentence for them all and tied him up too for being in league with Flint.

Vane... Well, Silver had stayed away from the pirate since his arrival on the Walrus, weary of him holding grudges with the whole rocks escapade Silver had pulled with the man, and while being busy trying to kick the fight off, had missed how and why Vane had joined them and got captured. But by the quiet a few bodies laying on the floor, one of Vane's daggers planted in one's back, he went down with swinging... Or stabbing is more accurate in the light of such events. So here the three men stood, tied, Vane snarling and glowering, Flint bleeding from his shoulder and Silver sweaty and bruised watching the man'o'war from over the ships railing and the fight exploding around them, watching avidly as the Ranger tried to fight it off.

However, the Ranger was closer to the man'o'war than the Walrus and was currently taking the brunt of the attack, slowly crumbling before their eyes. Flint refused to look at it, Silver glanced at it every now and again, but Vane would not take his eyes from it, and for some reason, a reason that didn't sit comfortably in his gut, Silver knew it wasn't only just because it was his ship getting destroyed right before their eyes, but what was on that ship. All for one reason and one reason only, the one thing other than the gold that linked the three tied men. Clara Flint.

Was she dead already? for if this carried on, she and the Ranger would fall, having not the backup they desperately needed, Defrasne having refused to sail closer to the man'o'war to help out, leaving the Ranger to its own fate, firing and sailing only close enough to protect the Walrus. It was a hard thing to watch, which is likely why Defrasne had put them there, with perfect sight of the happenings, so they could see the Ranger fall, and those on board die, Defrasne trying to hammer home the point to the Walrus crew that those on the Ranger could have been them if they had followed Flint.

No, Clara couldn't be dead, not like this. The only way Silver could ever picture, which he realized he didn't like to think about oddly, was Clara dying with a sword in hand and fierce glare on her delicate, elven face, looking death in the eye. Even then, Silver was sure Clara would tell death itself to fuck off and carry on fighting. There was no one quite so stubborn as Clara, though, Flint did give her a run for her money.

However, Silver stalled in his wiggling to watch aptly as the Ranger turned tail and began to sail away, a pointless act as they would never out sail the man'o'war in that proximity and the wind blowing against them. What the hell were they doing? Vane was the one to voice his astonishment. No man, Silver, Flint or Vane having expected the Ranger to try and run for it, not this late into the battle.

"What the fuck is Rackham doing?"

But Silver ignored the intimidating man's question and simply watched, bewildered when he noticed the turn and new angle of the sails of the Ranger, definitely the wrong angle if they were trying to escape, it actually hindering them from doing so quickly, slowing the ship down. Then. all of a sudden, Silver chuckled heartily, it all slotting into the place. The retreat, the angle, and the bizarre turn that could only come from one person Silver knew.

"Oh, I don't believe this is Rackham, and if this is who I think it is, either this will be magnificent or a bloody end for all on the Ranger."

Vane turned to look at him with a brow raised high, not in question, but the same bewildered clarity that Silver had come to when realizing who exactly was in charge over there. Silver knew Vane knew who he was hinting at, but like Silver was wondering just how she had come on top of the Ranger when she had a line of people above her in the hierarchy of the ship. Was Rackham dead? No, because even then, the first mate and more men would have taken charge if that was a case.

But, the again, Silver should know not to ask how when it came to Clara a long time ago, knowing it was a pointless question because the answer always hit you from the left field, Clara's mind and actions unpredictable even more so with each passing action. Plus, Silver knew from first-hand experience with Clara that even she didn't know how she pulled what she did off most of the time. No, Silver wanted to know one simple thing. Why.

Why was she still here, why was she on a ship, why was she still trying to find a place as a pirate when he knew, had seen with his own eyes, that she had a quaint house and nice woman waiting for her back on Nassau. Why risk all this, do all this, when he knew she didn't like to, that it hurt her more and more each time when she had another option.

Silver supposed that was just another facet of her unpredictability, her wondrous but confusing personality, another thing that drew people in when it came to her. Because despite what she thought about herself, what she thought other people saw her as, Silver could see it like many others had like Vane had by the way he seemed to know who Silver was talking about without bringing up her name. She had a light about her, hot and burning, always moving and rolling, and oh so bright that drew people in like a moth to a naked flame. It's just who Clara was. Flints gruff voice, tinged with pain from his shot shoulder was the one to snap Silver too.

"Clara."

Silver chuckled and turned, as much as the ropes allowed him to, and spoke to Flint, however, his voice carried over to Vane as well in their close space. Flint was looking either sick, pale from blood loss or extremely tired. Maybe even all three.

"Clara indeed. I've seen her in action up close. She has a genius to her, so shiningly brilliant its hard to look at... Completely insane mind you, but none the less genius."

Silver jerked to look at Vane when the man growled at him, only settling when he knew Vane was as tied up as he was and unable to put him to the same fate he had to the men strewed dead around them.

"And how is running away a genius tactic? How is that meant to get us out from this mess you and your fucking Captain have created by not being able to control your own crew!"

Silver renewed his attempts to break free, knowing whatever Clara had planned, she would need the backup of the Walrus, and she wouldn't get that as long as they were tied up and Defrasne still had control of the ship.

"She's not running away, she's backing up to take a running leap. She's turned the sails right, against the wind for the direction she's heading, when she turns, with the added distance, should speed her up astronomically. I bet she's chucked everything overboard too. What she's planning afterward, however, is a mystery to me. Look, she's already turning!"

Then the Ranger swiftly turned, bringing its hull fully around and aimed at the man'o'war, the speed not slowing one iota, in fact, picking up speed now that the wind was in their favour, sailing full pelt for the bigger and better-armed ship. Vane swore loudly, likely having come to a conclusion that Silver hadn't reached yet, figuring out Clara's plan, and began to struggle in his own ropes, tearing ringing out as he slid free and plucked up the knife from the nameless man's body he had killed on the floor, and proceeded to free Silver and Flint from their confines. The first sentence out of Vane's mouth didn't make sense to Silver, but by the way it was whispered, he guessed it was simply a memory playing out, something that had helped trigger Vane into understanding Clara's motives and actions. Thankfully, the bigger man elaborated.

"If not, rip them apart for all I care... Get your fucking crew back under control Flint! I know what she's up too. She's going to take out the hull of the Man of war, but she'll need us to swing around and pin its back end... She's using the ship itself as her weapon. She's planning to rip the fucking ship in two by the both of us hitting it in different directions at its ends. Making us sail right into the fire."

Flint stood up, rubbed his wrists but turned to address the crew, shouting for them to bar their hull with everything they had and head straight for the man'o'war. However, the crew simply paused, staring blindly at Flint, no hint of actually following his orders showing. Then, Defrasne stepped out of the crowd, beginning to argue that Flint was no longer Captain, that he had no say on the Walrus anymore, That-

Defrasne was cut off rather abruptly as a fist collided with his jaw, sending the smaller and thinner man sprawling to the floor in a twirl and undignified spread of arms and legs, nasty crunch echoing from the hit he took, indicating at least a broken bone. Vane stood before him and glared down at the man cradling his jaw, only to look back up, hair having come loose from its half tie up and framing his face in tangled locks, still glaring fiercely, shouting at the Walrus crew.

"You get your act together, that is my ship over there! My crew and I swear if any of them die due to your cowardice, if Rackham or Bonny is injured... or Clara is even scratched, I'll kill every single one of you!"

The crew scrambled into action, Silver couldn't really blame the fellows, not while under both the glare of Flint and Vane. However, Silver was caught up with staring at the back of Vanes skull, Vane's words tugging at Silver's mind. Was he the only one that had picked up on the unintentional emphasis on Clara's name and the minor injury he had attributed to her in payment to vengeance?

This was from Vane... Vane, the very same man Silver had seen a month ago rolling across the floor of Noonan's with Clara, both bared teeth and going in for the kill, growling at each other like two wolves. It almost made him dizzy to see and hear the transformation from how they were, to this, whatever this was and made him infinitely curious to how this transformation had come about. What had gone down between the two to change the song?

The thing was, Silver thought Vane didn't realize, or know he had done so, or notice he had put emphasis on anyone's name, let alone bring Clara up the way he had. A heavy feeling, feeling and sinking his gut like lead, settled in him, confusing him even more by his own reaction to this revelation. Vane slowly turned around, looking over his shoulder, behind him, and locked eyes with Silver. The lead in Silver's stomach turned to mercury and burned through him as he looked into Vane's eyes, searching. How close exactly were Vane and Clara?

The Walrus gave a violent rock to the left as the ship turned and the two broke eye contact, walking in opposite directions, Vane to the hull and Silver over to Flint who had gone to the side of the main deck balcony to watch over the sea. Silver adamantly pushed down his confusing and conflicting emotions.

They began to sail, picking up speed, aimed right at the back end of the man'o'war as they drew closer. The Ranger had just hit the hull of the man'o'war, bowsprits lancing each other and locking together, Silver, Vane, Flint... Everyone, as they drew that last bit, braced themselves with anything on hand, be it the mast or the railings and a few seconds later, the Walrus hit its mark.

All three ships shook and lurched vigorously, careening and jarring together in a mass of wood and brass and cotton sails, the Ranger coming from the front, the Walrus from the back and the poor man'o'war trapped in the middle of the building mass. And just as Silver thought it was all for naught, that the Ranger and the Walrus would capsize, had already begun to do so under the pressure of the bigger ship, a vociferous and deafening building noise of wood splitting rang out around them.

The man'o'war, trapped, cornered and pinned, began to split at the seems, wooden planks and beams coming loose and falling into the sea as it was torn apart, masts and sails following suit, splashing and creating waves that ran up and landed on the decks of both ships as they sank into the deep blue. The Spanish men, the ones who hadn't fallen into the sea screaming, got crushed in the flying wood or fruitlessly tried to hold onto the breaking ship evacuated, jumping overboard, rather taking their chances in the unforgiving and deep sea than the two ships currently bulldozing their own ship.

The Ranger and the Walrus sailed over the last bits of the ship still standing, or the waves from their ships pushed the bigger debris out of the way. The two ships sailed closer, so close they nearly ground into the side of the other, riding over the broken and hollow carcass of the man'o'war. Silver almost laughed, truly and half-crazed laughed. It had worked, it had actually worked and they were still alive. They had won. Then, he heard Vane shout from just down from him, making Silver turn to face him and see the man standing on the rim of the ship, hanging onto a long rope and leaning overboard as far as it would let him too, staring at something, or someone, that was on the Ranger, and the next time Vane shouted, the name registered in Silvers mind.

"Clara!"

Silver grabbed onto the railing and pulled himself over, leaning over so he could see the Ranger and looked in the direction Vane was staring at, and it didn't take him long to spot who Vane was calling, she was kind of hard to miss. Clara, in all her glory and still alive, was standing at the wheel of the Ranger, an unknown man standing guard by her.

Bits of broken wood were sticking out of her riotous red curls, black smudges from smoke were smeared across her skin and button nose, blood, that Silver was sure wasn't her own, was splattered across her face and as she began to walk closer to Vane, smiling brightly, Silver noticed her heavy limp, the stained cloth wrapped around her thigh and her tan leather pants stained with her own blood all down one leg, but she limped all the same, as fast as her lame leg would allow her to, to the side of the Ranger and as close as she could get to Vane, still smiling.

"Vane! Thank fuck your alive!"

That mercurial feeling was back, pumping through his veins as he watched the way Clara smiled at Vane, the way she spoke to him, the way her eyes didn't leave his. If not before, now he was pretty sure Clara and Vane weren't simply Captain and crew mate. No, something more was there, lurking in the murky depths of both their tempers. Maybe even they didn't realize it, but it was there all the same. The only thing Silver didn't quite understand, apart from when this had happened, was why he didn't like it. Why that feeling burned through him, why he couldn't turn away from the sight of the two smiling at each other. It seemed not only was Clara unpredictable, she brought out unpredictability in other people too. Namely himself.

Silver stumbled to the side, in the act to make his way over to Clara, to see her up close and hopefully stomp down that boiling feeling when someone grabbed him by his shirt and slammed him back into the railing behind him, Flints rageful and blazing eyes staring him down as he kept a hold of his shirt.

"That wasn't the Urca it's still nowhere in sight. Your information was wrong!"

Silver grinned and held his hands up in the universal sign of surrender, feeling much more like himself now he was in a situation he was used to.

"Well, I wouldn't say that now. We still have time, it could just be a little late."

Before Flint could lash out, a crew member ran up to him, a young boy Silver had seen running around the cannon decks before, breathlessly speaking.

"Captain, we're taking on a lot of water, the Ranger is too. We need to dock the ships right now or we're not going to ever get back to Nassau and follow the man'o'war into the blue!"

Flint looked around, only to settle back in on Silver, who in returned grinned wider and gave a shrug. Flint scoffed and pushed away from Silver, spinning in a flap of long black coat, shouting to the crew as he made his way to the Captain's cabin.

"Beach her then! And fast!"

Yes, Silver would rather face Flints anger than the odd feelings and reactions the Captain's equally hot-tempered daughter dragged out from the core of him. Life was simpler that way. When Silver walked away, he pointedly refused to look back at Vane and Clara behind him

* * *

Clara, with the help of leaning on a now fully awake and perfectly fine Rackham, hobbled up the sandy shores from where the Ranger had landed on the nearest beach, a while down and away from the docked Walrus. Both ships had taken damage and had started to take on water, but from her viewpoint, that was better than having shipwrecks at the bottom of the sea and being dead.

"Red, dear, surely you should sit and let someone look at it, your leg is red with your own blood, god knows what else is in that wound. I don't need you dying in my arms just after you saved not only my arse by taking cannon fire to the face and pushing me out of the way, but the rest of the Ranger crew by your little feat of what I'm not sure to class as a genius or complete lapse in sanity."

Clara tried to smile up at Rackham only grimaced, likely taking notice of how pale and drawn she had become. Now the adrenaline was over, now that she was still alive and breathing and the man'o'war was down, the pain in her leg was kicking up a storm. Instead, Clara carried on limping and pressed her hand into her wound deeper, hissing at the added flash of pain, but the pressure easing it off soon enough.

"I'm fine, honestly. If anyone needs to sit down, its you, you took a good bash to your head and was out for a long while. Let's just get to the Walrus crew, grab Vane and then talk about my insanity. I'm sure Vane will have plenty to add to that conversation."

So, with a frown from Rackham and a glance from Bonny who was beside him, the Ranger crew dutifully following behind, they made their way up the beach and towards the people gathered near the docked Walrus.

When they arrived, Clara stood up straighter, well, the straightest she could manage with her leg, detached herself from Rackham who battled her for a moment, sure she would fall flat on her face, but gave in when she proved stubborn, and limped towards the back of the man with the long black coat.

He turned just as Clara came close, and for once, Clara didn't think about what the others would think, what weakness she would be showing, what Vane would think and edged closer, hugging Flint tightly. The man froze, and then hugged her back just as tightly. Clara slowly pulled away, smiling as best as she could and spotted Silver from over Flint's shoulder. Clara untangled herself from Flint and made a go for Silver, about to hug him too when someone large stepped in front of her, snagged up her arm and forced her away from the walrus crew and back to the Rangers. Only when they were far enough away to not be heard, did she look up and realize she should have known who would drag her off. Charles Vane.

"I'm glad you're still alive if only to ask what the fuck you were thinking in the first place. And don't play dumb, I know that little plan was yours, it practically reeked of the shit you pull constantly. If I didn't know better, I-... What the hell happened to your leg? What the fuck are you doing walking? Sit down before you bloody pass out!"

Clara didn't have the willpower or strength left in her to fight against Vane as he gently helped lower her to the soft sand, sitting on his haunches so he wasn't towering over her and could look her in the eye as he spoke. Clara tried to smile, really she did, but it came out more of a grimace and her voice was raspy when she spoke, quiet in her weakened state.

"Got stuck between a big splinter and the deck. I'm fine, I just... I just need a moment. And why are you complaining? It worked didn't it?"

Vane scoffed at her and peered down at her bent leg, with gentle fingers, he pried the blood soaked leather trousers from her leg to take a look at the wound, only to swear quietly and press around it with cool fingers on her flustered, swollen and heated wound.

"Shit. It looks like it's getting infected and there's still some splinters left in it. You shouldn't have pulled it out, not without help. We need to get this clean, now. Duncan has some medical training, he'll fix this right up. Duncan! Duncan! Jack, Where the hell is Duncan?"

Vane pulled himself away from Clara's wound to look over his shoulder to Rackham, who in turn looked like he wanted to be anywhere but the beach they were currently on.

"Well, you see, here's the thing..."

Clara sighed as her head lolled onto her chest, eyes closing shut and staying so in her exhausted state. Of bloody course, it was Duncan who had the medical training, one of the few who could help, also the person she had killed. God forbid something actually played out well for her. Eyes blinking back open, Clara cut Rackham off from his ramblings.

"He's dead. I killed him."

Vane's head snapped around to her, eyes like slits as he glared incredulously at her from her side.

"You killed the only person who had doctor training on the Ranger? My first mate? What? Did he call you short? Did he look at you the wrong way? Fucking hell Clara! He's the only one who could help you!"

Clara was too tired to argue, feeling like she wanted to sleep more and more with each passing word. Thankfully, someone was willing to back her corner as Gareth shimmied out from the Ranger crew and stormed forward, speaking to Vane in a tone that not only boarded insolence but down right anger.

"He, your first mate that you prize so well, wanted to run! To leave you to die! Rackham got knocked out by the cannon fire, which is lucky that is all he got as Clara pushed him out of the way in time, earning that wound for her efforts. Bonny disappeared to god knows where in the middle of the battle. We had no one to follow, and Duncan wanted to abandon you all to save himself. Clara did what she had to, what we should have all done. She stepped up when no one else would and we won because of it, we're alive because of it. You should thank her."

Vane cast a glance her way but focused back in on Gareth, a mean twist to his lips.

"Thank her? I believe you want to do that enough for the both of us..."

Gareth nostrils flared as his chest puffed out in anger, taking a step forward and towards Vane who was tensing in preparation to stand. Clara, tiredly, called Gareth's name and shook her head in the negative. She knew she would have to pay a price for killing Duncan, it's how that worked, but rather the debt collector being Vane like she had originally believed, it seemed the still bleeding wound would be the one come calling for the price. Fuck.

Vane huffed and turned back to her leg, prodding once more, his voice disregarding of Gareth as he spoke.

"We'll vote for a new first mate later. When we don't have other things to worry about first, or some of us aren't bleeding out and getting an infection, when we-"

Gareth cut Vane off, something unnameable glittering in his eyes.

"No. We vote now."

Vane growled and did stand up this time in one fluid motion, glaring down at Gareth. Clara thought Vane was about to kill him, reach over and snap his neck, but he simply talked in a voice that was eerily calm.

Clara idly watched and listened from her point on the ground as the Ranger crew gathered around when Rackham called them over with a wave of his hand, but her mind was mainly on her leg and how much she wanted to slip into slumber. A man, fat, and round with sweat stains was the first forward, voting for himself just as Vane had promised would happen.

The same thing happened when the next four men stepped forward and cast their votes. However, the game they were playing changed when Gareth slid forward, and instead of following the path the others had, he looked around him, threw a glance her way and then spoke in a clear voice for all to hear.

"I vote for Clara."

Once again silence pulverized the Ranger crew in the wake of Gareth's vote, before another man stepped forward equally as confident, throwing in his own vote.

"I too vote for the lass! She saved our asses out there, if I couldn't see her tits or arse, I'd wager she had a bigger dick than most of us. Ramming that man'o'war head on, that takes balls! And the type of person I would be willing to follow."

Clara watched, amazed and astounded as more men stepped forward, following Gareth in their vote for her. Vane raised his hand up, palm open to quiet down the crew and looked behind him, right at Clara, something flickering at the edge of his eyes. He didn't even turn away as Rackham spoke up.

"I vote for Clara. She did save my life after all, I'd rather not have that debt hanging over my head."

Vane lowered his hand, still looking at her, this time, a grin tweaking at the corners of his lips and finalized it all.

"Well then, added with my vote, Clara is now the first mate of the Ranger. That is if she doesn't fucking bleed out first for not thinking her plans fully through."

Clara blinked owlishly, wondering if she had indeed passed out and this was all some fevered dream, mouth opening and closing as she tried to find something to say,whether to argue or agree, she did not know. Thankfully, saving her from more embarrassment and confusion, a boy from the Walrus, a small thing with greasy brown hair and spindly fingers ran towards them, shouting for Captain Vane.

"Captain Vane! Captain Flint wishes for you to come look and come quickly!"

Vane stalled before he sent the boy a nod and began marching off in the direction the small lad had come from, up a sand dune that had sprouts of grass coming off it, two figures already perched on top, Clara already knowing it was Flint and Silver. Clara fought to get up, grunting and wheezing as she did, practically hopping to catch up with Vane, and when she did, he looked none impressed, snatching up her arm to help keep her balanced.

"What part of stay down is so hard for you to understand Red? You're injured, mayhaps gravely if it is infected, you need to rest, not go running around."

Then his cold treatment of her, his rebuffs of Gareth who had stood up for her made sense. He wasn't pissed off with her so to speak because he was slightly, but he was also trying to keep focused on her wound, trying to help her not get worse than she already was. But she needed to see the end of this, come high water or hell, she needed to see the end of this day. Because that nagging feeling was back in her mind and whatever Flint was calling Vane over to see, she just knew she would want to see it too.

"Vane... I don't say this enough, but please. After today, after Duncan... After what I did and faced today, I need to see what is over that dune."

If what she thought was over that dune was really over that dune, her actions today would be validated. They would mean something, and not show that she was slowly but surely becoming a monster. Because Duncan, David, the last two people she had killed, they didn't worry her, didn't hurt her as much as that cook did or the rapists when she had ordered their deaths for payment of the schedule.

If what was over that dune was really there, then everything she had done to get to his point meant something. Every wrong, every remark, every killing, every fight, every plan, it made them right. Or, less wrong than what they were. If it were true, she wasn't a monster, she was going to be a creator, she was going to fix things. And if her wound was infected, if she did bleed out, she wanted that hope, that sight, that dream to be the last thing she would ever see because it meant SHE meant something, that she wasn't another sewer rat, that she was not nothing like Eleanor had called her.

Vane must have seen something, or her use of the word please had thrown him off as he reached up, swooped a soft thumb over her cheek as he cradled her face, looked at her with those gunmetal eyes and slowly nodded, his grip loosening as he jostled her arm over his broad shoulders, took her weight while keeping her dignity and show of 'walking' and helped her up the dune. It was frightening how well Vane seemed to know her sometimes, knowing she would have hated to be picked up and carried, but yet helping her while still letting her keep her attitude and front in place.

As they grew close to the top, Clara heavily leaning on Vane and breathless dispute the help, she could hear Silver whispering to Flint.

"We missed one thing... We didn't account for the storm last night. I was right after all, the Urca is here, right before our eyes."

Vane and Clara came to just behind Flint and Silver, but Vane pulled them down, ducking as Flint and Silver had done. Clara didn't understand why until she looked in the direction everyone else around her was and sucked in a deep breath. Gold. Shining, glittering, pure gold was spread about the beach over the dune, spilling out of crates and chest half buried in the sand, a ship, more wrecked and torn then their own ships lay capsized on the beach by the mountains of gold, men running around, trying to gather all the precious metal into one spot, looking like ants from their distance.

Clara couldn't help it, she laughed and turned to Vane, nose nearly pressing against his as he turned to face her, her lids growing heavy as she spoke in a delirious tone.

"We did it... We actually did it... It means something... I'm not a monster..."

Clara's grip loosened, arm falling off and away from Vane's shoulder as she began to sag, eyes rolling into the back of her head as she grew limp and Vane grasped for her, wrapping her in his arms to stop her falling backward as she slipped away from the real world. Faintly she could feel Vane's hand on her face, cradling, trying to shake her awake as his tone grew worried and frantic, or she simply slipped to far away to understand. She was so tired.

"Red? Red... Clara! Come on, wake up, stay with me! Clara! Don't just fucking sit there Silver, go get the Walrus's doctor! Now! Flint, wake her up! Wake her up! Do something! Clara! Come one red, you're going to be rich, there's no time for dying now... Clara, please! Wake the fuck up!"

Silver bolted up and ran for the Walrus crew, Flint stayed frozen to the spot, watching Clara's spluttering breathes become fewer and far between, the sound rattling as he stared with wide-eyed at her still form and Vane... Vane pulled her tighter to his chest, holding her sprawled form to him as he shook her, hand still on her face. But it was too late... She was gone.

* * *

 **Next Chapter** : Clara fights for her life, secrets are spilled and the Ranger crew depart from the Walrus's...

 **A.N:** Sorry there was no chapter last Wednesday, I had a busy week but I hope this one makes up for it! The next chapter should, I hope, be out next Wednesday, but if it isn't it will definitely be out next Sunday!

As always Thank you to everyone who reviewed, this chapter is for you as I sort of had to force myself to get through it, only succeeding in knowing so many of you like it and all your warm words of encouragement! So THANKYOU, you guys keep me going!

Thank you to everyone who Favourited, followed and reviewed, you guys are the best! If you can spare the time, or feel up to it, drop a review, they really do warm me up from the inside! -GoWithTheFlo20

 **QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS:**

 **What other shows do you watch?**

Well, this is a good one and to be honest, I've been thinking of writing a fic about these for some time, but this fic and the Rackham one has took up most of my writing time. But if you guys like the sound of them, give us a hint and I might follow through with my urge. I'll also say my favourite characters from the show.

Vikings- Rollo/Bjorn, it's a toss up really.

The Borgia's- funny enough, I prefer Juan.

Robin hood bbc- Obviously Guy of Gisborne. Come on, who doesn't like him? Twisted bad guy with a battle of good and bad? typical.

The White Queen- Richard III, oh my days, I love him, I really do.

Marco Polo- Prince Jingim, I honestly dream of having as great of hair as he does. Plus Remi, the actor, is practically perfect.

 **Ashebones?**

Ashebones is a go! I repeat a go! ;) I've already written out one scene where they really shine through, I couldn't help myself, so look out for them when they do come into play.

I wanted a Vane/Clara relationship.

Well, please be patient, it will happen, they will just take a longer time to get there. This is a Vane/Clara/Silver fic though, so while you will get Vane and Clara sometimes, it will also have Clara and Silver. It's just the way it is.

 **More scenes with Rackham?**

Well there was some more in this chapter, but more will come, promise! Just last chapter, Bonny pretty much took centre stage and it sort of needed to happen that way. I was going to add more, especially with Rackham, but that was the longest chapter I had written (Until this one) Reaching 11,000 words and well, you have to stop at some point XD. However, this chapter will be around as long as it gets, because this one reached 15,000.

Until next time, keep being the wonderful people you are!-GoWithTheFlo20


	18. Where Loyalties Lay

Clara was quickly dragged down from the dune and laid on her back amongst the soft grains of sand, her head flopping to the side when Vane finally let go, stepping back as a man came jogging over, Silver close behind, practically the man's shadow. The man, a Doctor Howell if Vane remembered correctly from his minimal stay on the Walrus, blundered over and fell to his knees beside Clara's prone form, bending over, hands a blur as he ran them over her body, checking this and that. Vane could see Flint from his peripheral vision, pacing back and forth, practically wearing a path in the sand. Vane himself couldn't keep still as the doctor carried on his frantic work, leaning on one leg to only swap to the other. Silver, however, was as still as Clara, standing just above her head, staring down at her, baring down upon her like those granite gargoyles that were perched on stone churches, watching, waiting.

After what felt like a lifetime, the sun having sunk and risen once more, the ships turning to rot and moss, the sea having dried up and left cracked earth in its wake for all the attention Vane paid to time, the doctor pulled back from Clara, shoulders slumped and head bowed as he slowly came to a stand, turning to face a still pacing Flint who only stopped his momentum when Howell raised his eyes to meet his. Vane knew right then and there, it wasn't good news, not by the grim set of lips, the blank eyes and stiff posture of the shorter and thinner man.

"I'm sorry Captain. She's not breathing, her heart has stopped... There is nothing I can do for the lass. She's gone."

Vane could only stare, still trying to process the man's sure and steady words, ones that just would not fix themselves, not in his mind, as Flint flew at him, picking up Howell by his jacket lapels and shaking the man roughly, spittle flying out of his mouth as he snarled in the man's face, teeth bared like a wild dogs.

"What the fuck do you mean she's gone! She's right there! Do something, fix it, pull a miracle for all I care, just do something or your head will be detached from your neck before you can tell me once more she's fucking gone!"

Howell scrabbled for Flints fists, pushing and tugging himself free, stumbling backward as his feet finally hit the sand and he was free from the notoriously vicious and bloodthirsty Captain's grasp. Vane, however, was still mentally repeating the words he had heard moments prior. She's gone, She's gone, She's gone...Nothing more to do, she's gone. Clara couldn't be gone, not now, she was only just snarking at him, flinging fire and acid-laced words to him, riling him up like she often did, pulling stunts that only Clara could manage. So caught up in his own mind's workings, Vane almost missed what the good doctor said next. Almost.

"She's dead Captain, she has no heartbeat! She's lost a fair amount of blood! Added to the fact she already had an underlying infection she had been battling from the cut on her hand that has partially scarred over, plus the shock she must have gone through from the lofty wound to her leg and the beginnings of another infection, her heart must have given out from the under the pressure! And that is not taking into account the smoke the poor lass could have inhaled!"

Now it was Vane's turn to charge forward, getting into the doctors personal space, gruff and sun-kissed hands pinning Howell to the spot he stood in. Despite what he asked of the doctor, Vane knew, just knew of the cut and scar he was talking about. In the pit of his stomach, the back of his mind screaming at him the answer. But it couldn't be, shouldn't be, please let it not be what he believed. Because if it was, then... It just couldn't be, she had that cut for a month, surely she would have fallen ill, given out symptoms, showed signs?

"What do you mean the scar on her hand? What scar?"

The doctor pointed down, over to Clara's pale and long fingered hand that he had left upturned, palm facing the sky. And just like that, Vane's small shrivel of hope that it didn't lead back to him, his actions, died in an instant. The scar, it ran across her fingers, curving into her palm by her pinkie. The cut she would have gotten when she had fought Vane in Noonan's with those scissors... Those rusty scissors.

Vane breathed in heavily, still staring at the wispy hand and stumbled back one step, two steps, three steps, just away from what was right in front of his face, blaring and searing into his mind. She had gotten that because of him. Him. He had offered her protection, a place amongst his crew, and he had failed. He had failed even before he could try and give it to her. His word, his offer, his promise meant nothing. He... He had caused this.

"Me. I... That was me. That was why she was always tired, no matter how much she slept, I thought... I thought she was just..."

Vane had no time to finish neither thought nor speech as a fist connected soundly to his jaw, forcing the man to stumble backward as his head whipped to the side, to stop himself from falling to the floor. However, something barrelled into his chest, sending the two flailing to the floor in a tangle of limbs and bodies. The thing on his chest sat up, one leg on either side of his chest, a yell of no words or pain, but of unadulterated and pure rage filled emotion broke out from Flint as he pulled his fist back and sent it sailing at Vane's face.

Vane let the second punch land, half believing, no, knowing he deserved it from the enraged Captain, but when the fourth came, Vane swung back, knocking Flint off from him and into the sand beside them, unleashing his own anger. At Flint, at the doctor, at himself, it did not matter, he let the emotion course through him, empower him and let go. The doctor, Howell, tried to pointlessly to separate the two men who were currently knocking seven bells out of each other, and all three men forgot about Silver who was still standing stagnant above Clara, over her... Until he wasn't.

Clambering to Clara's side, falling beside her, so close his thighs brushed her flaccid arm, Silver reached over and ripped open her blue corset like coat and mindlessly flipped the flaps open, freeing her from the material and leaving her in her thin, one armed smoke and blood stained shirt. Frantically looking over her, he placed one knee on her abdomen, digging the knee cap under the junction of where her lean ribs met, pulled her head onto his other propped up knee, hectically pushing her damp curls back with rushed fingers, took a deep breath, leaned down and kissed her open mouth, breathing all that his lungs held into hers. Pulling back, he watched as nothing happened, her skin cooling every second that passed.

Silver didn't give in, didn't stutter, didn't deviate from his determination. Instead beginning the process again, digging his knee in further, breathing in deeper, again and again, and again. All until a perplexed and alarmed voice rang out from behind him, and even then, he carried on.

"What the hell are you doing laddie!"

Flint and Vane stopped their brawl of bloody fists and snapping teeth to glance up at the voice, still tangled in each other, both zeroing in on Silver as he bent down once more, lips landing steadfastly on Clara's that were beginning to take a blue hue at the corners and edges. When Silver did speak, it was in between and broken up into couples and groups of words as he repeated the process, again and again, and again.

"Boys drowned often... In the river near... The orphanage I... Lived in... The patron, a man... From Amsterdam frequently... Did this when they... Stopped breathing... And their hearts... Gave out... It worked for them... It will work for Clara... It has to... Come on Clara... Breath..."

Flint and Vane pushed away from each other, Vane staying on his knees in the sand, watching as Silver carried on with no hint or designs of stopping, despite the lack of result. Vane would almost commend the lad, if it weren't for the situation and who it was aimed at. Howell scoffed derogatorily, flinging his arms out and around him astoundedly.

"By kissing them? Well, as a doctor, whatever you were taught is nothing but superstition, or worse, necrophilia laddie. The lass is gone lad, it's time to give up before you pass out. Lad? Silver? For fuck sake, give in, the girls dead!"

Even Vane, who had seen more than many a man, prized himself on that fact, froze to his position, bent and crashed on the sand, as Silver whirled on the doctor, not leaving Clara but turning to face Howell with a glare and twinkle to his eye as he frowned and spoke to Howell, voice fluttering in the air, chilly and steel like, sharp enough that Vane thought it could cut flesh.

"No, she's not. Not like this."

The doctor started up protest once more, tone escalating in level at the absurdity of it all. Silver gulped in air once more and, yet again, bent down to puff it into Clara's mouth, almost as gentle as a lover would. Vane's gut gave a spasm at that thought, suddenly Silver's reaction, his hardy determination, his relentless occupation of repeating the same task only to get the same result, made shaky sense, like a sand castle built on netting.

"Silver, it's useless-"

A mangled and raucous inhalation of breath cut Howell off, Clara's limb's springing to life as they scrabbled for perchance, which happened to be Silver, as she clung onto him and jerked turbulently in his arms, choking and struggling back to violent life. Silver hastened to grab her face between his palms, forcing the shaking and tremoring woman to look at him, her eyes still rolling around her skull dazedly, unfocused and panicked beyond measure.

"That's right, come on Clara, breath. That's it! Look at me, focus on my voice, focus on me."

Flint made a dash to the couple wrapped around one another, Vane following but slower, confusedly, jarringly watching what he thought was impossible, Howell stayed motionless behind them. Clara staggeringly blinked up and focused in on Silver's face that hovered above her own, grasping tightly onto his wrist to one of the hands holding her face, fingers digging in, causing white patches and indents to appear on Silver's skin. However, Silver didn't seem to mind as he chuckled as Clara gave a slither of a smile at Silver, nothing much but a slight pull to her lips upwards, but the most brilliant smile Vane had seen on her face, for the simple meaning that it showed life where there was none minutes before. Clara spoke, so quietly and rasping Vane almost miss took it for a groan, and though he heard it, the meaning was lost on him. Nonetheless, that mental sand castle began to crumble less and patch itself back together.

"I see you, John."

This time, in place of a chuckle, Silver laughed heartily, removing one hand from her face to reach over and lay his over Clara's one that was encased around his wrist, squeezing as tightly as she had. Be that as it may, Clara's words were not lost on Silver, as the man seemed to know exactly what she was talking about and whispered back what could only be a promise.

"I see you too."

In a flurry of movement, Howell came stumbling over, dropping down beside Clara and Silver, pulling the former away from the latter to get a good look at her, which proved to be a task within itself, voice full of disbelief and half wonder as he began to speak.

"Jesus Christ on a mast, she's alive... Fetch me my tools Silver, heat a dagger blade over a fire until it's red. We need to stop the bleeding before the lass dies... Again. Quick now! We're up against time here!"

Silver reluctantly followed orders, dragging himself away and back to the Walrus crew who were beginning to cook, gathered in a circle a way and bit down the beach. In a splatter of time and wheezy unstable breathes from Clara, whose eyes were beginning to droop again, Silver came back, skidding in the sand as he dropped a leather satchel by the doctor and handed the red-hot blade to the man's outreached hand, careful of how the blazing red and orange blade moved. The doctor settled down and only then turned to face Flint and Vane, ordering them into action too.

"Captain Vane, if you wouldn't mind, grab her upper body and arms. Captain Flint, the same with her legs. Pin her down good and proper, keep the lass as still as can be... This will hurt like a bitch and she's going to struggle."

Vane grimaced as he realized what was about to happen, but moved into position all the same. Holstering Clara's upper body onto his lap, being careful not to jostle her too much, Vane placed her between his open legs, knees bent and heels dug into the sand and her head tight to his lower ribs, wrapping his arms around Clara's own chest to pin her arms to her side and away from what was about to take place. Flint did the same to her legs, hands pinning her calves down. Disorientated, Clara seemed to only just realize she was being held again and looked around wearily, smiling that radiant smile now aimed at him as she croaked out her confusion.

"Vane... You're here... Dad... What are you doing? Why are you-"

"Sorry Red, this is going to sting."

Then, as Vane's words seemed to register in Clara's mind and he could begin to feel her muscles tense, well as tense as she could go in her very weakened state, Howell grabbed a hold of her thigh, ripped the hole in her trousers wider to get at the wound and lowered the simmering blade to her wound, forcing it across and over as the sound of sizzling skin and bubbling blood filled the air, the atrocious smell of burning flesh wafting up Vane's nostrils.

Clara gave an almighty scream, well, not so much a scream, but very much like the same yell her father had given only higher in pitch and wrenched violently in Vane's and Flint's arms, twisting and fighting to pull away from them and the blade burning and knotting her skin back together. Vane held true and tight as her scream, more like a war cry than anything else, sputtered to a stop and she grew limp and finally, thankfully, she passed out and saved herself from the continuation of the onslaught of pain. Still, Howell held the blade pressed to her skin.

When Howell lastly pulled the dagger away, smoke rising off from Clara's thigh still, Flint let out a gush of air that he had been holding in, ostensibly sagging as he edged and faced the doctor, who was currently rifling through his big bag of not so goodies.

"Will she recover now? Is it done?"

Howell glanced up from digging through his bag, casting his gaze momentarily to all three men who were staring at him before fixating back on Flint's awaiting face.

"Hardly Captain. She's breathing now for sure, but that is the only good news I can give you with good conscience. The lass has an underlying blood infection, added to this wound, likely another. She's already heating up, which indicates a fever on its way, and that is if she is strong enough to fight that off... Well, she hasn't been through the eye of the storm yet. She has a long way to go and many demons to face."

Flint gave a rocky nod accompanied by a congregation of blinks. Suddenly, he steeled himself, Vane practically being able to see his blood set to stone as he reached out and haggled Clara out of Vane's grasp, standing up with the smaller, unconscious redhead laid between his arms like a sacrificial lamb. Flint didn't give Vane much time to protest, as he began to march off, Silver following not far behind the pair. Vane rushed to stand and shouted at Flint's retreating back.

"Where are you taking her? She's a member of my crew! She belongs on the Ranger-"

Flint whirled around, eyes as hard as onyx and face drawn tight with restrained and tethered emotion.

"She's my daughter and she will stay with me! Do not test me on this Vane... Silver, come. I will rebuild our ship and plan to get the gold aboard and away from the men guarding it. Be ready for it Vane, if it weren't for I needing your assistance, I would fucking kill you."

Vane blustered under Flint's tone and stare, snarling as he charged off, his long hair whipping around his face as he marched to the Ranger crew who were even further down the beach. Apparently, by the relaxed nature, neither crews were none the wiser to what had transpired with both Captains, Silver and the Ranger's first mate.

Vane didn't fight Flint, didn't feel the want or need to, guilt clogging up his throat. Surely he should have seen the warning signs, the constant tiredness, the dark circles that had become more prominent under her eyes. Only now, looking back, did he realize it was never the stress or worry of finding a place that he had originally put it down to, but a god damned blood infection from a wound she had gained from fighting him. Just before Vane left ear shot, he heard Howell speaking to Flint and Silver.

"If a fever does grab her, she will... She might say things she doesn't mean, see things that aren't really there. The heat does funny things to peoples minds..."

Just before Vane made it to his crew, his mind set on drinking as much as he possibly could while waiting for the right time to strike for the Urca gold, wanting, needing to do something to take his mind away from the fucking mess that was this day, Rackham jogged over to him, rattling off before he even drew close.

"One of the man'o'war survivors have swum ashore, the crew has him now. We're just waiting for your orders."

Vane locked into place, stalling all movement as he turned to look at Rackham with a glower. Clara was ill, there was nothing he could do about that, nothing at all. However, that didn't mean there was nothing for him to do for Clara...

"What was his job? What did he do on the man'o'war?"

Rackham pulled back an inch, head tilting to the side in puzzlement, but he answered the question, though his words gave more than hint to his feelings of bewilderment.

"Well... I believe he was one of the ones who fired the Cannon, how that has anything to do with anything of importance Charles, I-"

Vane's lips pulled back in a mock of a smile, hand reaching for his belt as he grabbed the handle of his long dagger and unsheathed the weapon from its leather prison, twisting the blade around idly as he carried on his walk across the beach. He needed to blow off steam, his and Flint's fight having been cut short, and the perfect solution had just presented itself to him. That boy, that little fucker, could have very well been the one to light the cannon that had nearly killed... Had killed one of his crew mates. Vane refused to think about his reaction to this, putting it down to the fact that he had nearly lost a valuable member of his crew, his, and in so a slight against himself, and not that it had anything to do with the actual person it had affected. Clara.

"Good."

Rackham grew even more confused and waved his hand out at Vane, but the man carried on, ignoring him.

"Charles! Charles, what are you doing? He's just a survivor, leave the lads to deal with him... Wait... Where's Clara? Charles? Charles!"

Rackham took off down the beach, running swiftly after his simply murderous and very foul mood Captain.

* * *

Clara groaned deeply, trying to roll over only for her thigh to flare up its anger and for her to still as pain shot out and radiated through her. Blinking awake, the world came back to Clara in fractured pieces, as sharp and poignant as broken glass. She was laying down on something comfortable, soft cotton but thin blankets draped over her form loosely, something fluffy and cloud like propping her head up.

Glancing around the room she found herself in, a room she had never been in before, but had strange memories of. A large ornate desk in the middle, a wide bay window by her side and bookshelves, Clara spotted John Silver amongst the mass of furniture and books, cramped and curled in a large wooden chair, one that looked like it belonged to the desk, head propped up on his arm which itself was held up by his elbow on the arm of the chair. Gone was his blue jacket, instead only in his rumpled shirt and breeches, curls going haywire, eyes shut in what Clara thought was stiff sleep. But she was proven wrong when his eyes snapped open and landed straight on her own still slightly fevered ones.

"How long was I unconscious for? Where am I?... What happened?"

Silver pushed up in his seat that was up by her bedside, yes, that was what she was on, a bed. Her mind, however, was still haunting her, replaying what she swore she had seen in this very room, the ghost's haunting her, teasing her, tormenting her, coming from the shadows and nooks and crannies. When Silver grinned at her, it did very little to calm her heartbeat or her frantically swirling mind.

"You're on the Walrus, in the Captain's cabin, on his bed if you haven't figured that part out yet. Flint wouldn't place you anywhere else and had at least one person watching over you while you were out of it, to be honest, it became tedious, so thank god you're awake and that is over. You were out of it for nearly a week, lost in a high fever , with a dose of awareness in between to break up the monotony of watching you fitfully sleep. Though technically, you did die for a good few minutes right at the beginning. Which, you have me to thank for, being alive right now and all. You're welcome."

That couldn't be right... She remembered, she thought... Mary had been here, in this very room, standing near her feet, blaming her for leaving, saying the most awful things, dripping poison in her ear and heart. She was as clear and as real as Silver was right now, thin and drawn, colourless and... Dead. She remembered begging for Mary to leave her be, that she didn't mean to go, that Mary was the one to force her.

Then it got foggy, her memory thick and broken, but she thought she saw Flint, shaking her, placing cool cloths on her forehead, trying to keep her in bed, telling her it wasn't real, to calm... That he was there with her. Mary had left with bloody tears, fading into the shadows, leaving her alone once more and Clara had almost begged for her to come back, even if it was a wrath of the real Mary and not the real woman.

Clara remembered seeing Ed, oh god, little Eddy, her brother for all his worth, peeping out behind the desk, honey brown curls glinting, cheeks rosy and grin cheeky, mango in hand. He had told her to come play with him, that he couldn't leave without Fox and at the name, Clara had cried, she had sobbed. It had been so long since someone had called her that, since he had. And yet again, she had fought to get out of bed, trying to get to him, knowing some place in her mind that he should have been older, what with all the years that had passed. But all she saw was Ed, her brother, asking her to come and that was all that had mattered.

Until once again she was pinned down to the bed by Flint and Silver, she was surer this time, and Ed had changed into something grotesque and blue, a hang man's noose around his neck, rotten mango in clenched fist as he was viscously pulled back into the shadows of the room that Clara believed were the gates of hell. She had fought, she had reached, she had begged and sobbed for him, but he had went just like Mary had. She thought she had passed out after, to the soothing sounds of someone. Maybe Flint, maybe Silver, she didn't know what was real or not at this point.

The last thing she could remember, or imagine, what was real?... The last thing she had thought she had seen was the rapists, all bloody and broken, David with his neck twisted and mouth agape in a silent scream or gasp for air that would never come, a Spanish man, downed and dripping sea water, crowd around her, closing in around her, she couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't move, sure they were here to drag her to the hell fire she surely deserved for what she had done. She remembered lashing out, throwing punches, kicks, yelling only to be wrapped up in someone's arms as they rocked her back and forth, holding her hands, whispers brushing the shell of her ear in... Silver's voice? Or maybe another phantom, she wasn't sure, she couldn't be, but she thought it might have been Silver.

Clara groaned, snapping back to the real world, to reality, hands clenched in the blankets, unshed tears misting her eyes, only not falling due to pure force of will. It had to be one big, horrid dream. It had to be. Or, she had given away more than she ever wanted to, to anyone. Had she shown an outward sign of what she had dreamt? Had Silver, or Flint, peeked under her stone walls and saw her weakness's, saw her flaws all bright and raw and true? She prayed not, god, did she pray they hadn't. Her voice was shaky when she spoke, from being unused and her locked up emotion.

"I didn't speak in my sleep did I?"

Silver's grin slipped, falling off and shattering. He got up from his chair and came to her bed, sitting down gently on the edge, where her hip lay, looking straight at her but she refused to meet his eye, choosing instead to stare blankly at the wall behind him.

"Clara... You weren't really sleeping when you were talking. You can't possibly blame yourself, you had died after all just last week. Don't worry, Howell warned us your mind would not be in the present if you awoke at all. You need not worry-"

Clara's eyes flickered to his, adhering there in a fierce lock, face blank and tone deadly serious as she cut him off. She needed to know how much they had heard, how much they had seen, how much of herself she had bared to them. How many of her nightmares and ghosts they had been privy to. How much of herself, the one she kept locked up and in the dark refines of her mind, her scars, both mental and emotional, they had seen with their own eyes.

"What did I say, Silver."

It wasn't a question, no doubt about it, but an order, a demand. Silver was more than slightly hesitant to reply and Clara knew whatever he told her next would only be half of what he had seen and heard, fruitlessly trying to ease the blow to her ego and self.

"All sorts really. Something about a Mary and someone called Ed, asking them not to leave again. Which is most intriguing really, I never took you as the begging sort, but then, I suppose you can't be held accountable because you were burning up at the time. Then you kept saying David was going to get you, then just gibberish for the most of it... And maybe a few tears... Which I'm sure was from the pain and not what it was you saw. It was only me and Flint that was in attendance when it happened..."

Silver was trying to make light of it, prod her into anger rather than the remnants of hurt and disgust she did feel of herself, for herself. Silver, Flint, they had seen it all. Maybe not the phantoms she had seen, the tormentors sent to plague her by her own mind, but they had seen her reaction to it, and that... That was much worse.

They had seen her fight and cry and beg and sob and be weak. Monstrously weak. She couldn't afford that, not now and not ever. Not if she was to ever carry on with her big plan. Not if she was ever going to look into their eyes again. Not if she was ever going to look at her own reflection. Weak. She was weak. Clara's eyes clamped shut as the truth hit her full force in the gut.

Clara felt a cool hand on her forearm, supple and considerate, barely touching her but reassuringly there. Opening her eyes, she was welcomed with Silver's, face in that serious look of his that he sometimes fell into that never stopped from jarring her core, so odd was it to see. Clara's breath hitched and she refrained herself from yanking her arm away as Silver spoke, his words falling over her and warming her more than the thin blankets she was currently in.

"Whatever you saw Clara, whatever invaded your mind in that fever, it wasn't your fault. None of it. You have this annoying habit of taking blame when none belongs to you. You need to put a stop to that, for I'm afraid it will eat you alive... And send me and every other person in your vicinity grey before our time."

Clara pulled her gaze away from his, staring back at that small crack in the wall behind him.

"I died John. Died. Mayhaps... Mayhaps I saw what I did because I should have stayed in that state. I shouldn't have been brought back."

Silver scoffed at her and his hand turned less gentle, his fingers, thumb and index finger, nipping and pulling as he pinched her arm. Clara uttered an indignant ow and did, this time, yank her arm away from him, only for her glare to be met with twinkling eyes that mimicked the sky and a wiley smile to his mouth.

"You can't possibly die yet, we haven't reached our island with five hundred passos. Anyhow, you'll most likely outlive us all. Not many people are able to come back from the dead. Though with you, Anything is possible and I really shouldn't be that surprised."

Then, blearily, almost as if seeing another person's forgotten dream through a spyglass, Clara remembered Silver sitting over her, face smiling down as she laid on the beach, his hand on hers as she held on for dear life. It was him, John. She thought he was pulling her leg when he had told her she had him to thank for her life, another joke he had thrown her way. But it wasn't, was it? John...John had saved her life, he had given it back to her when she was lost. John Silver had pulled her back from the darkness that had threatened to engulf her.

"You saved my life. Back on the beach... It was you."

Silver shuffled in his seat, flustered and uncomfortable as he turned partially away from her, blowing her off and her statement. But he couldn't. Not fully. You couldn't forget or overlook someone that had literally brought you back from the cold dead.

"Tit for tat and all that. Now you owe me, see? Not totally un-self-serving. And I will call for payment at some point."

Clara knew he was doing his best to play it off, brush it all under the carpet, or when it came to him, under his act of selfish and single-minded bastard who only thought about himself. However, by the glint in his eye and the one in Clara's, they both knew it had not worked. She saw him. Through his tales and manipulations, through his façade and mask, through the front he put on and saw John. Just like she knew he saw her. Clara was speaking before she could hush her tongue.

"You know, back at the rocks on Nassau, when you were trying to get the pearls from Vane, I thought I knew where you were. Behind the big rock on the left. I knew, just knew you were close. I was going to tell Vane, let him kill you and take the pearls for myself. Life would be simpler without you, coming in like a whirlwind and messing all my pretty plans up... Messing everything up. Not forgetting the shit you drag me into."

Silver swivelled in his seat, his body coming to face her as well as his eyes, confusion and wonder echoing in them. Clara couldn't blame him. She hadn't meant for it to come out the way it had, especially after what he had just done for her. Clara was the worst at bringing her emotions to words, at expressing what she really felt and in this moment, she was sure that shined through magnificently.

"And why didn't you?"

Clara thought of lying, diverting course and telling him this was her plan all along, to get Vane and Flint to work together for the gold. But he would see through that no doubt, and she just couldn't bring herself to say it. Not to Silver. John had already seen her at her weakest, at her angriest, at her lowest fucking points. What would honesty between them hurt? A lot actually, she felt like she was seconds away from opening a door she would not be able to shut again, and whatever lay on the other side would be the thing she had to walk out and greet. Clara opened that imaginary door and did not step in through it, did not stumble, but lept in head first. She never really could stomach doing things by halves.

"Because... The world, the entirety of it, without you I fear would be a dull and dreary place. Boring and lifeless, no schemes, no games, no betraying or saving one another. I don't... I don't think I would ever like to see that day come to pass. Ever. Yet, I don't have a fucking clue why I feel that way. You are the most befuddling and aggravating man I have ever met."

Clara glared at Silver, as if he was the problem, as if she looked hard enough it would all make sense. Unfortunately, it only got more muddled and murky. Clara's speech finally registered in herself and she realized she may have said too much, still not sure what that 'much' exactly was. So, in typical Clara fashion, she scoffed at herself and slammed her guards back up, tearing her eyes away from Silver's.

However, Silver suffered no same ailment and shook himself out of the little bubble they had blown around them, got up and went to the coat rack in the far corner of the room, plucking off a robe that dodgy looking like it could fit her, Clara only just noticing she was in nothing but a shift that had come from god knows where, and came back to the bed she was on. With amiable hands, he helped sit her up, slid the robe around her shoulders, thankfully letting Clara do the rest, she wasn't sure her pride would handle anything else, all the while speaking in a tone Clara couldn't quite place.

"Well as having the reputation and title as the most befuddling and aggravating man in your life up till this point, which I plan to keep, by the way, I have something incredible to show you. You may have been off in the land of sleep, but the rest of us left in the real world have been rather busy."

Clara would admit to being both incredibly confused but also intrigued by this sudden twist in conversation. With help from Silver, the slightly taller man taking most of her weight with her arm wrapped around his shoulders and gratefully off her still aching and painful leg, Silver lead her to the door of Flint's cabin in a slow pace, letting her hop along and out of the room where her nightmares had taken form and life.

* * *

The door to the very bottom holding to the Walrus creaked open, two figures slipping inside as the door softly shut behind them with a ting of the lock flinging back into place. It was dark in the large cavernous underbelly of the big ship, only a few candles spread around here and there, flickering, illuminating the room in decadent orange, but it didn't take long for Clara's eyes to adjust to this change in lighting, neither for the airy gasp of her breath to shatter the silence that had befallen her and Silver.

"This isn't even all of it Clara, the Ranger has at least half on board too."

Gold and precious gems, shining, glimmering, sparkling and shimmering lay all around them, in piles, in open crates and chests, spilling forth and onto the floor. Everywhere Clara looked, there was something that would have cost more than she could ever hope to own or pay for. Stones of deep blue, white and red, bars, coins and solid rocks of gold and silver, swords inlaid with the same sparkling diamonds and gems, statues that glinted... The list was endless and indescribable to what the sight actual was, what it meant to see such wonder right at your fingertips.

"I did not think there was this much gold in the whole world John. Look at it all, am I still in the mists of a fever? Is this real? I never really thought... I mean, I didn't think about what I would see, I knew we were after the Urca gold and it would be large, but I never actually pictured just what it would look like. And here it is!"

Clara didn't dare let go of Silver, her leg still awkwardly bent at the knee to stop any and all pressure from being applied to it, but she wanted to, she really wanted to. She wanted to go over to the chests and dip her hands into the gems, she wanted to pick the swords up, she wanted to lift the gold and take a sniff to see if the metal that so many spilt blood for, that she herself had spilt blood for, smelled as pretty and brilliant as it looked bathed in orange light.

"I believe you thought you had not seen a lot of things before. I bet you never saw yourself as a pirate, let alone a first mate. Never saw yourself as rich beyond measure, yet we have this gold in front of us. Never saw yourself as worthy... If there is one thing I can say for honesty and truth, it is definitely isn't your time to die. Not now, and not for a long while. Not while we have all this to spend and drink through."

Clara pulled her arm back, the one wrapped around Silver's shoulders, and pulled away, hopping back a step so she could rest and lean against the sturdy wood of the wall and door behind her. Clara didn't bother to try and halt her tongue, this time, realizing it was a pointless act. Insanity stated that it was the same act repeated, again and again, only expecting a different result each time. Clara wasn't insane, and when it came to Silver, somehow, some way, he always managed to drag the truth and brutally personal feelings to the forefront and out into the open. Insanity would be trying to fight that. Although, that didn't mean she couldn't use her old trusty friend and known confidant, sarcasm, as a shield.

"The things I've done John, they are not the actions of a worthy person, more of a scoundrel unleashed from prison. But, I suppose, if only to repay you for saving my life and to stop you from hammering on and on about the same bloody thing, death will have to come for me another day."

Silver beamed all white teeth and strolled over to her, leaning against the wall to her left, so close that the sleeve of her robe tickled that of his cotton shirt, balancing the wood against his elbow and shoulder as he casually crossed one leg over the other, facing her.

"Always another day."

That was the way of her and Silver wasn't it? Oaths and quiet promises. Always using always. And now, now she would get the chance to carry that on, now she would be able to do many things she had never before, like seeing this gold, like seeing more islands flushed with green, like sailing the seven seas. Those ghosts that had haunted her, that had bludgeoned her when she was at her lowest, they meant nothing. Figments and lost, dark things she shouldn't hold onto any longer. All because of Silver, all because of John. He had dragged her back from the brink of the afterlife, he had not given up on her when she was prepared to. Without much thought, Clara turned to lean on her own arm against the wall, to face Silver too. When he spoke, he added extra emphasis on the and.

"Always and another day. Me and you."

Silver took a step, well, more like an edged shuffle closer, his chest nearly pressing into hers as he looked down at her and Clara could have sworn she could feel his heartbeat beating against hers, in the same rhythm, always the same dance and strum. Clara's eyes fastened to Silver's, the light and gold dusting him in gold, all apart from his eyes which were still incredibly blue and so beautifully contrasting against his gold shimmering skin.

Clara's, for a reason she couldn't explain, heartbeat picked up pace, her hand shakily reaching up to place her palm against his cheek, her fingers fluttering just under his eye, her voice growing husky when she spoke, but with those three words, she poured everything she had into them, everything she had felt, everything she was feeling, and the prophecy of everything she would feel.

"I feel you, John."

And she does. Both physically in front of her, so close his heat warmed her up from the inside and metaphorically. In her darkest moments, when she needed gods grace, when she prays, it's not god who answers, not Jesus she hears, not angels she sees on her blank eyelids, but John's smiling face. John. Who really isn't her friend, because he was something more, something unnameable. Something she wouldn't cheapen and sully by naming. Names were constrictive, they never measured up to what they meant. Silver meant more to her than that, and she was sure he always would.

Silver reached out, laying a palm over her chest, sliding his fingers under the material blocking them from skin to skin contact and let the limb settle over her heart, his eyes never leaving hers. When he spoke, his hand moved slowly up, only stopping when his words did, gliding up and around to the back of her neck, nestling into the messy curls that laid there, leaning closer, breath fluttering across her lips and cheeks like tendrils of satin.

"And I feel you, Clara."

The gap between them vanished like it was never there to begin with, like it didn't belong there in the first place, and their lips met in a torrent of unspoken words and bottled emotions. Who closed it, it was hard to tell as Silver tugged her forward around the same time Clara's own hand delved into his messy curls from his cheek. Clara had never kissed someone before, never thought to do so, but it didn't matter as she and John met and pressed together like two tidal waves crashing into the other. Silver's other hand wrenching up to cradle the side of her head, getting lost in her curls as his head turned slightly to the side, pressing deeper as Clara's other hand and head mimicking the movement on instinct she didn't know she had. Pulling and tugging, closer and closer, until Clara wasn't sure where Silver began and she ended.

Silver's lips opened as he nipped and sucked Clara's lower one into his mouth, tongue delving out to sweep and wrap around hers a heartbeat later, groaning headily as Clara made hers dance with his, bringing it into her own mouth to suck and nip too. He pulled away for a moment, forehead resting against hers momentarily, breathing heavily, only to dive back in like she was the air and he was drowning, head tilted to the other side this time. Clara met him head on in a collision course. It was messy, it was poignant, it was a battle... It was so very Clara and John.

Silver's hand left her head to grab a hold of her thigh, just bellow her bum as he hustled one of his legs between hers, always drawing closer. Always. He and she groaned as his leg slid and locked between her own, Clara reaching up to his shirt collar to drag him closer, as close as possible, thinking now she was the one who was drowning. Silver pushed her backward, her back hitting the wooden wall behind her as the air around them boiled, as the gold glinted, as they pulled flush against each other...

And then Clara went to take a step to the side, to make more room for Silver and her leg, the one she had been so careful with, gave out. The kiss broke as Clara began to fall to the floor, Silver just managing in time to pull back and grasp her arms to keep her balanced and pinned to the wall.

"Fuck! Shit!"

Silver helped her rebalance herself against the wall, cocky grin in place when she finally looked up all flushed cheeked and bitten lipped.

"What, did I make Clara Flint swoon?"

Now the heat that burned through her was one she was used to, one she knew how to handle, knew what to do with. Anger. Clara reached up and whacked him on his arm, Silver pulling away slightly with a quiet ow as he rubbed the spot, confusedly looking between her and his arm.

"No, you egotistical arsehole. My leg! Jesus, that hurt."

Silver, still frown, glanced down at her hand that she pressing into her thigh, face going blank before it seemed to click into place and he scrabbled over, yanking her hand away from her thigh. Clara refused, downright demanded herself not to think about what had just taken place between her and Silver in the midst of stolen gold in the holding of the Walrus. She was still hurt, tired and this... Whatever this was could be dissected and pondered over later. She already knew Silver brought the unpredictability out of her, for now, she would just chalk this up to that and dust her hands of it... Until later and she was alone.

"Oh shit, sorry, forgot about that. Though, you have to admit, you swooned a little didn't you?"

Clara chuckled, knowing full well what he was doing. He wasn't trying to make her uncomfortable, wasn't trying to get an answer to that question either, he was trying to break the sudden tension, make it easy for both, she and him, to slide back into what they were comfortable with. And with her chuckle, it had worked. All until the door to the side of them swung open and hit the side of the wall across from it, nearly sending one of those bedazzling chests toppling to the floor.

Flint came charging in, looking around the room until he found her and Silver right by the door.

"What is she doing down here? I told you, Silver, to keep her in bed until I got back!"

Clara hobbled forward, coming in between Silver and Flint. Near Flint, Clara began to falter again, having to cling onto Flint's arm to keep her balance, which he readily wrapped around her waist to help keep her standing.

"It was my fault, I wanted to see the gold. Silver tried to hold me back, but I told him if he kept badgering me, I'd put a bullet sized hole in his skull."

Flint cut his gaze to Silver, who simply held his hands up in surrender and shrugged nonchalantly, before focusing back onto Clara, smiling brightly when he noticed her hazy free eyes and colour to her cheeks.

"Come on, let's get you back to bed, where you belong, that leg still has a lot of healing to do. Silver, keep guard in here will you? Make sure no men try and sneak in and get to their shares prematurely. We set sail for Nassau when night falls. And don't argue with me Clara, you're sailing back with us. End of discussion."

Clara swallowed, but nodded and smiled. She knew she couldn't do that, not with her plan with Vane still in the works. But with the glower from her father aimed her way, she was hardly going to bring up that point to him. Flint seemed to accept it, but Silver did look at her a bit funnily. Damned astute man.

Thankfully, Silver had no time to protest as Flint began leading her to the door and out, only to pause when Clara tugged and stopped hopping along, turning to look over her shoulder to Silver.

"It's not your time either Silver. You... You're a confusing man."

It was the closest she could bring herself to tell him to take care of himself, unsure of when she would next see him, or if she did, the welcome she would get when he figured out she and Vane had made off with half the gold. Swallowing down the emotion-blocking her throat, Clara gave a sharp nod and began leaving with Flint again, the door shutting behind them resolutely, leaving Silver alone in the gold-decked room. But not before Clara thought she had heard his reply.

"Not as confused as you make me, it seems."

That night, when Flint had left her in the Captain's cabin, the ship still beached, thinking she was asleep. Clara took off, what should have been a ten-minute venture of escaping the ship unsaw and to the Ranger a bit down the beach turning into a full two-hour escapade with her lame leg. But make it she did, dressed in a spare set of clothes Flint had left her and a hooded jacket she had nabbed from Flints own coat rack, Clara slipped onto the Ranger, into Vane's cabin, which was thankfully empty, and stayed hidden in the shadows of the room, determined to only coming out once they had set sail and there was no way for her to be transported back to the Walrus.

She did, after all, have her own plan to follow through with, a free land didn't build itself, and what first mate abandoned their ship? No, despite her father and Silver being on the Walrus, this ship, The Ranger, was where she belonged... For now.

* * *

Clara was on the forecastle deck of the Ranger, wind blowing through her hair, sitting down on the railing, hand bracing herself by holding one of the ropes that led up to the topsail, eyes closed as she rested, enjoying the cooling breeze, the warm sunshine and the consoling sounds of the sea around her. She felt tranquil.

"Didn't I tell you to stay bellow deck, resting that leg of yours? I'm surprised you even came back to the Ranger, or Flint let you... You didn't inform Flint did you? Of course, you bloody didn't."

The Ranger had pulled into Nassau three days ago, though no person had left the ship, for as soon as the Walrus had started to undock, in short, caught up being busy, the Ranger had turned sail and got out of there before anyone could catch up or realize the Ranger was making off over the horizon with half of the Urca gold on board. Did Clara feel bad about it? Yes. However, they had been promised half, and if they had of stayed on Nassau, Clara was sure they wouldn't have even seen one gold coin. So, if she had to force Eleanor, and maybe Flint, Clara was still unsure how much, or is, involved in the whole 'keep the whole Urca gold to ourselves' scheme, she would force them indeed.

Promise's were sacred to her, something she held above all else. If you gave your word, you lived up to it come hell or high water. Clara couldn't stand, couldn't breathe or stomach being in the same vicinity as a person who turned their back on oaths. If you didn't intend to keep it, don't make it in the first place. Of course, this was excluding her and Silver's empty promises of running off, for they both knew each other wouldn't leave, so really, nothing was broken.

So here she was, sailing back to Cocos Island with a ship belly full of gold, a gamy leg, and a rise in standing. Overall, not that bad seen as a week and a half ago she had technically died. Clara slowly opened her eyes and swivelled to look at Vane, grinning widely at him, more than a touch mischievously.

"Of course, I didn't, who do you take me for? And where else would I be? I'm first mate now."

Vane swaggered over, to her side and leaned on the railing she was sitting on, hands spread shoulder width apart as he looked out to see, her and him facing completely opposite directions. That didn't bode well for Clara, there were only three situations when Vane had not looked in her eye when they had spoken, when they fought, when Vane had seen the bruise on her ribs and when they met the Maroon queen in that shadowed room together, when she had seen his Slave brand. So, either he was going to swing at her, or... Well, she didn't know what those other two instances equated to, but she would hazard a guess it wasn't good.

"With your father, on the Walrus, the ship you didn't get gravely injured on."

Clara cut Vane a glance from the corner of her eye, unsure on how to proceed. She didn't know whether he was testing her... Again. Gauging her loyalty, seeing if she swayed more to her father or him, her stability and ability as a first mate, or whether he needed reassurance that Clara wasn't going anywhere. Clara softly scoffed to herself. Vane didn't need reassurance, especially not from her.

"As I had just said, I'm first mate now. And as you fully well know, I died. I died for this ship Vane. I died for this crew. God dammit, I died for Rackham, you and Bonny. If that doesn't show you where my loyalties lay, nothing will I fear. This is my crew now, my ship as much as the next crewmate, my home and family. This... On the Ranger is where I belong."

Whatever she had said seemed to put him at ease as he turned to lean on the railing and finally face her, however, his eyes searched hers and Clara knew their conversation on uncomfortable topics was far from over.

"I know Clara. I know, even if they are not amongst the top, you hold loyalties to Flint and Silver, especially that Silver boy. A blind and dumb man could see it for what it is. I've known from the very beginning, it was what caught my eye in the first place. Your stubborn determination and strong loyalty. And I let that be, I will continue to let that be, if it never... Never crosses over with your loyalty to this ship, to my crew... To me. This game you are playing, you can't straddle both sides forever. The rope you are walking is thin and fraying and the time will come, close in the future, where you will have to fully and truly pick a side. Mine or their's. There's no other option or way. I don't doubt your loyalty to this ship, to the men, not after what you did. What I am questioning is will that loyalty hold up against the bonds you hold to Flint and his crew. When the time comes, what side are you going to choose?"

Clara chuckled darkly, eyes locking onto Vane's as she hopped down from her seat, making sure not to use her sore leg and leaned in closer to Vane, eyes that normally represented and mimicked the summer sea turning stormy, like a hurricane and whirlpool and tornado wrapped all in one tempestuous foray of blues.

"Don't bring John-... Don't bring Silver up to me Vane, do not mention his name in conversation to me again. Or, if you truly want to speak of Silver and my loyalty to him, shall I speak of Eleanor? Because, if you look at it like an outsider, I'm not the only one here who has conflicts of ambitions and goals when it comes to it, am I? I'm not the only one standing here with loyalties that are split. What was it you said? Ah, even a blind and dumb man can see it. Or shall we both agree those are subjects and topics we should never discuss with one another, for I am sure we will never see eye to eye about it?"

Vane tilted his head slightly to the side, looking like he was soaking her words in, her eyes in, her in. Clara pulled back and away from him, crossing her arms over her chest as she looked back out to sea, the sun making the ripples glint white and dandelion yellow. Thankfully, by the grace of god or some other all power, Vane silently agreed to her offer but did not lay off.

"You still haven't answered my question Red, what side will you choose?"

Clara grew fed up and whirled on him, hands clenching under her folded arms, nearly grimacing as her leg flared up but managing to mask the pain last minute, the twinge only adding fuel to her anger. Why was Vane so pissed, so curious all of a sudden? She was the one who had died, she was the one who left her father, again. She was the one who kept sticking her head through the hangman's noose for Vane and the Ranger crew. Why was she the one being questioned?

"To answer your fucking question, what if I make my own side? And in the light of day, when the time comes in this distant future you are picturing, it isn't me who makes the choice but you and them? Will you trust me, or kill me? Well? Which one is it Charles?"

Vane's first name just slipped out, and suddenly, Clara realized why Vane called her Red and only when angry, called her Clara. It just felt natural, to get her point across, to show him how deadly serious she was. Was this what he felt when he snarled her name back at her? Vane sighed and rolled his neck tiredly as if her very presence was taxing or she simply wasn't understanding him or his point. Clara nearly growled at that.

"I think I've shown you the answer to that enough Red. If you haven't found it yet, then you are the blind and dumb one. Just... Take heed. People are never as they seem at first glance. You have shown me that. I didn't come looking all around this ship to argue with you."

This time, Clara was going to ask of him the same he had asked of her. Knowing full well the time would come when she needed that insurance, that fail-safe to fall back on. It was time for him to give back what he had dragged from her.

"Trust, Vane. Trust me as I have come to trust you. Even when it looks for all its worth that you shouldn't."

The storm around them evaporated and Vane gave her a slow nod for her efforts, tone simmering down to good nature and a sense of ease.

"Take it easy on that leg will you? You did die because of it. It would surely be a shame for you to pull a repeat of the same act, especially when I've come to expect the unexpected from you."

Clara chuckled and began to limp away down to the main deck, more sturdy than she was when she had first woke up, on the Walrus, but still unsteady compared to everyone else's strides and gait.

"I'm not sure I understand the word easy any longer."

Clara shouted over her shoulder as she descended the stairs, only for a sharp rebuff from Vane to echo out from behind her nearly instantly.

"I believe you never did in the first place!"

Clara made it halfway across the main deck when she spotted the island just peeking out from over the horizon, Cocos Island. Clara stopped and took it in, the crew bustling around her doing their duties. She never thought she would get sick of seeing that brilliant Island, despite what had happened on it. Lost in her own mind, Clara startled slightly when a voice quietly piqued up from just behind her shoulder, snapping her head around to be greeted with Gareth who was not looking at her, but at the forecastle deck she was just on.

"You know, a first mate, Quartermaster and Captain are meant to work harmoniously. A team of just three that hold the lives of the crew."

Clara followed his gaze and spotted what he was looking at, Rackham and Vane, standing close by one another, talking between them as a map or large piece of paper was held out in front of them by Rackham as he pointed to different spots. Clara scoffed and turned her gaze away from them and looked back to the island, refusing to look at Gareth who was refusing to look at her.

"If you're worried about a fracture happening in the working tandem of the Ranger, fear, and worry not. We are in harmony, or at least, understand each other to a point."

This was all she needed, to be swiped of her hard earned place because the crew believed she did not fit their Captain or Quartermaster as they thought she should. It had only been a few days for goodness sake. However, from the corner of her eye, she saw Gareth take a look around him as if searching for people who were too close and leaned in closer to whisper in her ear.

"You misunderstand me Miss, Flint. Harmony is hardly ever there, just the façade of one. A cheap façade at that. Everyone, every single crewmate has a favourite, someone who holds more of their loyalty than the next. Always."

Clara did not turn around, did not change stance, in fact, she acted like she did not hear him. She knew, wherever this conversation was leading to, it was dangerous. For her, for him, especially if someone overheard or saw any change between them. Gareth turned slightly, fiddling with a knot to a thick rope that wrapped around the mast, but never really did anything. An act itself to seem like he was busy while she was simply taking a break. Inconspicuous.

Now, Clara was more than intrigued by this sudden turn of events, almost salivating to get the knowledge of what Gareth was hinting to and where his was heading. Turning her head slightly to the left, to his direction, never taking her eyes from the island in head of them, Clara whispered back.

"In this conversation of understanding and misunderstandings, who holds your loyalty more than any another? And it's Clara, never call me Miss, Flint again."

Everything died down for a moment, and Clara was sure he wasn't going to answer, the sound of footsteps on wood, the wind and jostling men masking her heartbeat, but then, against all odds, Gareth did answer, grin present in his tone so much so that Clara did not need to see his face.

"Well, I would have to say the woman in front of me. The woman who faced cannon fire, blood, and battle and did not turn away, did not grimace, did not falter, who stayed true to the men of this ship till the very end. The woman, who people are saying, died full and true, for a good while, only to come back like a phoenix amongst the sand and sea shells. And I'm not the only one. A few men, a chosen few, more than a good handful or two, if prodded to choose a side, would covet your corner without question. For, say, if the time ever called for your own ship, or this façade of harmony breaks and you and Vane must sadly depart from each other like many Captains and first mates before ye. This is all in good speculation of course."

Seashells and sand? Phoenix? God, sailor's were worse for superstition and tall tales than the many drunkards Clara had seen and interacted with back in London. She was no phoenix, no re-birthed warrior. She was Clara. Simple and plain and dirt poor Clara... And yet, she wasn't anymore was she? She was first mate, she had come back from the dead, she had faced the battle with the man'o'war head on and hardy. She... Clara was a pirate, and for the first time, she actually felt like one.

She had done many things that would make weaker people shrivel, she had faced things she never wanted too, and had come outstanding, she had fought tooth and nail and never once thought to give in or give up. But did she deserve men's devotion? What had Silver called her? Worthy. She was worthy. Worthy of how much, though? Clara had died on that beach, that was not up for debate, and despite all she told herself, since awaking after her fever, she had felt different. Stronger, fortified, better.

When she thought about the cook, David, the people on the man'o'war and those rapists, she felt nothing. No remorse that had hit her solidly when she thought of them before. In fact, she was sure, now, put in the same situations again, she would do the same, only quicker to act this time. Clara had died and in her place stood a new one, one she didn't even know herself but she was itching to find out. Clara smirked as she questioned Gareth further.

"A chosen few you say? And would these chosen few, to speak metaphorically and in what ifs of course, become crew to a ship that may or may not land my way? Would they follow me? Would they fall in line when I said to?"

Gareth was quicker to answer this time.

"I dare say they would help you capture said ship, or... Sequester it from another Captain. Or die trying. Loyalty is funny that way, easy to garner with the right act, incredibly hard to lose despite the acts that could follow its precedence. You've earned quite a few men's in these past two weeks."

Clara had the feeling that the Captain Gareth was hinting to taking a ship from was Vane, and she would be no party to that. Ever. So, she would just need to gently, but adamantly, stomp out that idea from his, and the other men he spoke of, heads. Yet, she needed to keep them too, if this was for truth and not indulgence from Gareth. This was what she was working to, a step towards taking Nassau. And even the most simplest of minds would understand she needed men on side, a lot, to do that. Clara did turn to face Gareth this time, needing to drive her point home. Gareth turned to face her too, hands stilling on the knot he had been untying and re-tying.

"This is... Good to know Gareth. Really good to know. Though, metaphorically speaking, this is not the time or place... Or the ship and Captain. Do you understand me on that point? If not, tread no further, for I will not let you. Soon, though. Mayhaps very soon."

Gareth gave her a sure nod, showing he understood her perfectly, and his next words made Clara feel relieved. She had not lost these men before she ever had them.

"We, the ones inclined to slide into place behind you, will be ready for your word when it is given. No matter the circumstances those orders are brought around by and what ship."

"Good."

Clara nodded back to him and began to head for the hatch that led to the barracks, only to stop a few steps away, thinking better to leave it at just that, a simple and uninspiring 'good'. With her small time on Nassau, small compared to every other pirate, Clara had already figured out the way it worked, the politics of it all. A man did nothing if there was nothing in it for him. Partially turning towards him, Clara spoke briskly, leaving no room for argument or debate, before she turned back around and limped off, leaving a smiling Gareth behind.

"And Gareth? Make sure it stays that way will you? Your loyalty and advice are treasured by me. Dearly. A debt I will pay back, in time."

She wasn't just a piece on the board any longer, no, now she was gathering her own to a side no one could or would account for. Maybe what she had said to Vane was truthful after all, where it wasn't her choice that would come at all, but maybe it will come to a time where he had to choose whether to trust her or not, whether he, Flint or Silver would or could trust her. And while she may be physically weak at the moment, she had never been stronger mentally and in better standing. Her death had changed her physically, emotionally, and completely irrevocably.

The same Clara that had left Nassau would not be returning, and Nassau desperately needed to prepare. Clara was going to wipe the board clean, sending the queens, rooks, kings, pawns, every god damned piece clattering to the floor. And upon that, she will build a home on the ashes of anything and anyone that got in her way. After all, Clara had given her word to herself, those she left behind, and those dead and gone she would and Clara loathed promise breakers.

* * *

 **NEXT CHAPTER:** _The maroon queen gives advice, A flashback, Clara returns to Nassau and Clara's not the only one who has come back from the dead..._

 **A.N:** What the hell happened? I have no fucking clue, honestly, I swear it. One moment I was writing Silver and Clara talking, the next they were kissing. Blame them, not me! XD Although reading back, I quite liked how it turned out so I didn't end up scrubbing it out like I was surely tempted to. I don't know, it just felt right. Oh, and side note, that is the first ever kiss I've written, so please take it easy on me!

Anyhow, Thank you all so very much for all the kind words and I hope this is living up to what you want it to be, and hopefully more! Next chapter should be out either Sunday or next Wednesday definitely.

Thankyou all, really! And please, drop a review, they give me the drive to carry on and become a better writer! Once more, thankyou and until next time!- **GoWithTheFlo20**

CHAPTER NOTES:

 **THE RACKHAM/OC STORY:**

I'm sorry if I gave the wrong impression last chapter by asking if you guys would like to read another story, some of you coming to think I've given up on the Rackham/OC story I have in the works. Sorry for the misunderstanding, I can tell you for sure that it definitely is still a go. In fact, I'm just polishing up the first few chapters and the first one should be posted around chapter 21, 22 of this story. And for you brilliant readers who are so kind and for the mix-up, I have a sneak peak for you all!

 _Davina had always looked out for her ailing father, who had withered in the mind more than his body due to age. She ran the small but well-loved pub that had been in their family for a good few generations since their immigration, The Vanderdecken, that stood proudly on one of the many canals in Holland, her home country. She took the orders, listened and joked with the regulars at the pub, had a good report with the many that had run into the lively and colourfully short haired blonde, twenty-year-old woman. So, when a shipment of Irish whiskey goes awry, and the man who was meant to deliver it never comes to her door, Davina, on her father's orders, goes to the docks to set up a new trade agreement for a fresh shipment, only to be swept up in a whirlwind adventure brought on by language barriers and high-jinks. Shame really, that she doesn't speak much English, can't write it, and in a twist of horrid but decidedly hilarious events, gets mistaken as a cabin boy. And when she signs her name on the list of boarding crew mates, believing she's signing for the new shipment, heading towards the new world, her poor handwriting only cements the fact that she is a boy in every one's mind. After all, what woman is called Davy Jones?_

Hope you like the idea, and are looking forward to it! This is for all you patient fellows that I'm making wait. :)

 **THE SHIP BATTLE:**

As it has been pointed out, the ship battle last chapter wasn't totally realistic. Instead of trying to bullshit my way out of it, I'll tell you where I came from. I don't have much going into this fanfic totally blind to pirate life, and while I have researched, there isn't much about actual battles that took place.

So, instead of trying to come up with something a hundred percent realistic, which I knew I would have failed at, I made the battle symbolic and metaphorical for Clara herself. Clara being the man'o'war, the Walrus her ties to Flint and Silver and obviously the Ranger as her ties to Vane, Rackham, and Bonny. At the moment, Clara is determined to keep both balanced, which we all know is going to be impossible, and it will eventually tear her apart. A tug of war, or a crash of ambitions. And like the man'o'war Clara is going to sink because of it. IF she doesn't chose a side. Which I can't tell you, because spoilers! Even the way the man'o'war turned up was very much like Clara, out of the blue and sailing right in between the Ranger and the Walrus and just practically parking up and not moving. So, while it wasn't a hundred percent plausible or realistic, it had its reasons for playing out that way.

So, I hope this didn't quirk to many of you, and if it did I'm sorry, but it's done now, though I will likely go back and re-write that chapter at some point, in the distant future as I'm busy with this story and the Rackham/Oc one. Once again, sorry if it discouraged any of you from reading further or made you grimace at inaccuracy.

 **ENDGAME?:**

This fic is fundamentally Silver/Clara/Vane. Relationships in real life are complicated and not as straightforward as they are on T.V or books. Happy ever afters, I'm afraid are very much not a common thing. So, I'm trying to keep to that. To be honest, I've planned this out, so far, until early/mid season three, and even then, I haven't landed on an endgame pairing yet. That's just the way it's gone, you have some good Vane/Clara moments coming up, and the same for Clara/Silver. Though I can fully promise she won't be stringing either along or playing them off of each other. Although, you have to wait a bit longer for the Vane/Clara to shine through fully. So for the question of what is the end game? It's I honestly do not know. Not yet. Though, even if I did, that would be spoiling the story at any rate if I just told you everything that was to come and all the plot. So, I hope that settles some confusion.

 **MORE FILLER CHAPTERS?:**

There will be some filler chapters coming up, fear not, this fic won't be fast passed all the way through. Though, the last filler chapter was chapter 16, so expect the next one to be around , or is, chapter 23/24. But not until then for things really do keep coming until then, and bit plot points hit home. However, the next filler will be more happy based, as some sad and... Extreme? moments come in the next few chapters that I've been building up. So, I hope you enjoy what I have in store in that chapter :)

 **CPR AND AMSTERDAM:**

The first CPR practices came into play in the 18th century, originating in Amsterdam from some wealthy people who formed a group called the Society for Recovery of Drowned Persons. Though this was founded in 1767, a few years later than when this story is set, but some of the practices listed from them were in the works before hand. Some of which included, warming the victim, placing the head lower than the feet, applying manual pressure to the abdomen (Like Silver did to Clara with his knee), bloodletting, breathing into the person's throat and mouth AKA resuscitation (What Silver did), tickling the victim and even blowing smoke into a person mouth or even up their bum. Which, funny enough is where the saying blowing smoke comes from. While most of these obviously didn't work, some are the foundations of what we still use today, nearly three hundred years later. Which amazes me a bit, to be honest. Well, there you go, a little bit of history to go with your fanfic XD.


	19. Take It All

The normally desolate Cocos island beach was overflowing with the Ranger crew, men jogging around, arms ladened with crates and equipment. The shells of tents being set up could be seen, some already having been built in priority of the Quartermaster, the Captain and the first mate, the skeletons of unlit bonfires dotted around as they set up camp on the most forefront beach the island had, though it would be a long while before the camp was fully set up or the fires lit, as it was only just past noon, the preparation for their short stay was well and truly under way.

When the security and darkness of the night fell upon the island, only then would the crew begin to move their gold into the chosen cave Vane and Clara had previously picked out. Despite knowing they weren't followed on their journey to the island, no one, especially the Captain and first mate, was willing to take any chances. Clara had come to expect the unexpected, to always prepare for the knife aimed at your back, especially when one got content and lazy in their dealings.

So they were determined to be cautious, even with the gold in their grasp, so many things could still go wrong. A man from the island, one of the ones to lead Vane and Clara to that cage at spear point, had turned up when they had landed, well, had been waiting for them on the beach with a steely glare and crossed arms, telling them that the guards who would oversee their happenings while on the island would come at nightfall. He had also warned them not to put one foot out of place or bear the consequences, then left without a chance for a conversation to bloom.

Clara was safe and enclosed in her own tent, a makeshift bed of pillows and cushions on the floor laid at one corner and a simple desk in the other with some candles, rum, paper and cloth spewed over the worn and wobbly legged table. At her side was a wooden bowl, filled with the cleanest water she could find, which was from the sea, and a holey cloth half draped inside, soaking up as much of the water as the poor substitute of gauze could.

She had stripped off as soon as she was sure no one would unduly enter and she was alone, resting on the blankets and pillows, breeches thrown somewhere to the side, only in the long white shirt she had nabbed from Flint's cabin before she had made her get away, which barely even brushed the tops of her thighs. Clara sighed one more time, having felt like she had done this motion too many times already, reached into the bowl with both hands and ringed the small cloth out and made a start on actually cleaning the wound on her thigh rather than looking at it, going to clean it, only to chicken out when a drop of salty sea water landed on it and stung like an open flame would on her tender, healing skin.

It wasn't that the pain was too much, she had faced even worse and the wound felt a hell of a lot better than when she first woke up. No, that small sting just further reminded her how close she had come to leaving this world to never come back, and it made her dizzy to think of it. And how had she come to get this wound? By pushing Rackham out of the way. Rackham. She had, in those nanoseconds of the cannon aimed at them and realizing they could die, instead of trying to run or use Rackham as a human shield to take the brunt, she had pushed the man out of the way. In that time, without thought, she had acted and been true to herself and feelings.

And the truth was, in the face of danger, she was willing to give up her own life for Rackham's. Now that showed her how much she did actually care, about Rackham, about Bonny, about Vane, and that fucking scared her more than anything else she had faced. This wasn't a weakness per say, but a soft spot, something someone could hit and use against her if the time called for it. She couldn't afford that.

And her comeuppance was a gnarly scar that took up most of the side of her thigh. A ball in the middle made of pink, puckered skin that was still scabbed over, the wound where the wood had sliced through, slightly thicker than her own wrist and coming out of it were points of scarring pink skin, eight to be exact, of where the knifes blade had burned and sizzled into her skin, leaving an imprint, its shadow permanently brazened onto her skin. It looked like those compass's drawn on the maps Rackham had shown her, a star with north, east, south and west wrote around it. Only hers had no writing and it was angry red, painful and significantly less beautiful than a star.

Clara went to dab at her wound with the still dripping cloth when the feathery sound of material brushing material and being swept aside made her drop the cloth back into the bowl with a wet plop, stuttering her anger at being walked in on before she had even turned to face the intruder, cheeks flaring red at her undress and haggard state, hair let loose and only in a thin shirt, sprawled out on her bed with her bum leg out for show, for all to see, and really, that wasn't the only eye full they would get if they looked close enough Clara thought as her thighs slammed together and she frantically tugged her shirt further down to cover her legs, leaving a wet patch from her clammy and glistening hands she had dipped into the bowl.

Clara saw Vane stroll in like he owned the place, which he, in retrospect, did as this tent had come from the Rangers holdings and he owned the Ranger. But that was beside the point, this tent had been designated as the first mates tent, and in such, as hers. He couldn't just bloody swan in whenever he felt like it, she could have been naked for all he knew. Clara was flustered, red-faced and stuttering as she spewed her indignation in a flow of fast passed words and high pitched voice that even made her cringe.

"Leave! I'm undressed! Are you not supposed to ask for permission of entrance, before, you know, entering?"

Vane gave her a sweeping glance that did nothing to ease the heat and flush that burned across her pale face, eyes landing on the bowl beside her, scoffed and swaggered further into her tent, the entrance flapping shut behind him in that same fluttery sound. And as he came beside her and looked over her leg, standing above her as if there was nothing wrong, like her only being half dressed and huddled on her bed while he stood there looking as if he had seen it all before, she was ready and willing to lob the wooden bowl at his fucking head if he gave one wrong remark.

"You're doing it wrong, Red."

Clara glared up at him, blindly reached to her side and shoved the bowl away from her, some of the water escaping in her rough treatment and spilling onto her blankets. It made no difference to her, everything from the wood of the table to the cushions propping her up smelled of the sea, of salt and fresh and seaweed. It was a smell she had gotten used to during her time sailing, one she even now found comforted her when she drifted off to sleep. She had come such a long way since her first maiden voyage on Captain Ludford's ship, hating everything and puking her guts up at the slightest conk or shift of the ship.

"Of course I bloody am."

Vane gave no comment to herself derivative remark and wandered over to her table, hand hovering over the table, inches above the things on top as her swept it over, only dropping down to pick up an unopened bottle of rum and another cloth that laid rolled and hidden under a piece of paper. Damn, she had gauze after all. Once he had his prizes in hand, he turned back towards her, ambled forward and plonked himself into the sand next to her pile of blankets, by her bare leg and began to unroll the gauze, popping the cork of the bottle of rum with his teeth and swift twist of his head, spitting the ball of wood over his shoulder and away from them.

When he was done, he, rather pungently, reached over and twisted her leg by pushing at her knee, bringing her wound fully out into the open and to his gun metal and sapphire gaze. Clara tensed at the action, but Vane was already pouring rum onto the gauze, soaking it as much as possible in the drink Clara had come to quite like. Once the cloth was as submerged in rum as it could be, Vane reached back over and pinned her leg to the side by her knee, voice even but low and as rough as jagged rocks that Clara had come to always connect to Vane. He had such a unique voice, it was hard not to listen to him when he did speak. Though most of the time, what he did say pissed her off.

"Never use cold water and any old clothe you come by. When treating a wound that could have, or get, an infection, only ever use boiled water and clean gauze, or if you don't have that, rum, ale, god, even fucking wine, but never cold water from the sea or some stagnant pond."

Without further ado, or explaining why she should never use cold water, Vane abruptly pressed the cloth onto her wound, pressing steadily and firmly into it. Clara gave a resentful 'ow' and somehow managed to jerk away as the rum burned into her leg. Vane scoffed a chuckle, something that angered her further, squatted her hands away as if they were annoying flies, re-grabbed her leg and started dabbing her wound with circular motions and sweeps of the gauze.

Finally, giving up on trying to fight the bigger man off her when he was only helping, Clara stilled and let him do his thing. He was obviously better at her than this and Clara idly wondered how many times he had to do this, to the crew, to himself... Clara shook the errant thought away, speaking in a hushed voice, trying to break the silence and divert herself from the fact she was sitting in front of Vane half clad, and the heat of his fingers she could feel and not help but notice on the underside of her knee.

"Lesson eight?"

Vane gave her a quick glance, nothing but a flicker of his eyes to hers before he went back to looking at her leg, the fingers on her knee digging in a bit more as he purposefully pressed the cloth harder into her wound, making Clara hiss through her teeth as it stung like a bitch. She knew he had done it on purpose, that smirk playing at the corner of his lips could mean nothing else. As she had said, time and time before, Vane was one big fucking bastard.

"Generally speaking, I believe we are well passed the line of lessons Red. And even if this was, I highly doubt you would listen to me anyhow. Sometimes, with you, it's as useful as trying to explain something to a brick wall when you've set your mind on something."

Clara gave a hearty humph and snatched the cloth and rum from Vane, adding more of the alcohol on the cloth that was tinged pink from her wound and took over from him, taking it easier on herself then he did. Vane pulled back, but did not move from his seat by her, pulling his knees up and resting his arms loosely over them, head still turned in her direction as he watched her, likely ready to pounce on her if she did one little thing wrong.

"If you are here to berate me, while I am injured mind you, then please take my advice and fuck off. I can do without it right now. Come back later if you really feel the need to nag at me, until then, you know where the entrance is."

Vane sighed deeply, lifting one hand to tiredly run it down his face before it flopped back into place on his bent knee, eyes flaring in intensity as he peered at her.

"Why do you insist on arguing with me at every turn? Why try and prevail so hard at shoving everyone away with that acidic humour and scowl of yours? What is it Clara? Do you think you are too good for the likes of us? Too good to be here, doing this? Do you really believe you are above m-... us? Because, funny enough Clara, you are one of us now, no matter what you might tell yourself to help you get your fucking sleep! So come off your high horse and you might learn something that could help save your life at some point!"

Clara threw the cloth away from her with an angry swipe of her arm, this time fully knocking the bowl over as she scrambled up to a stand, mindless of her state of dress now. Vane followed her example and came to a towering stand, egregious look burning behind his eyes as his own temper burned as hot as Clara's one, both climbing in heat and fierceness. That was the problem with her and Vane Clara found, they bounced off each other too well. When one got angry, so did the other and it only got worse the longer they were around each other, neither ever willing to be the one to back down.

"Me? Ha! If anyone needs to get off their high horse it is you! Why don't you try and look at it from someone else's point of view before you judge constantly? Better yet, why don't you fuck off you wanker!"

Clara punctuated her point by pushing at Vane's chest with both arms, slamming into him, forcing him to stumble back or they would both hit the deck. However, Clara only got more enraged as Vane humourlessly chuckled at her, his glare matching her own.

"Is that all the little princess has? With the way you are going, holding everyone back with a pitchfork, you know what will happen? You will die alone in some fucking ditch, forgotten. Is that what you want Clara? Because right now I am all too happy to oblige with that wish for you. Try me Clara. Why the hell do you always do this?"

Clara flipped, the pain in her leg sinking to the back of her mind as she charged forward and shoved Vane harder towards the tents exit, wild and loose hair flying around her face as she spoke without thinking it through, without thinking of what Vane's reaction would be to her admittance, if he would even have a reaction or not.

"Because I do not want any more people to die, you idiot!"

Vane laughed even harder, eyebrows raising high as he condescendingly looked at her, temper against temper, glare against glare, summer against winter, Vane against Clara. How many times had they played this same fucking scene out? Clara couldn't help it when it came to Vane, something just burst inside her, heating her up and scorching her veins, making her want to do something, anything, to flow that emotion out, to get it out from her body like it was poison in need of draining. She just had to get it out and that attempt often led her to anger, her safety net when chartering unknown lands. Vane's next question only doused her boiling anger with fuel.

"Is that a threat Clara? Are you going to try and kill me? Go on then, don't promise something you can't live up to! Go on! Fucking try it!"

Clara could not halt it, not that she wanted to, as she half growled and half shouted a noise that had no words as her fists clenched as she stormed forward and shoved one more time, hard, sending Vane into the side of the tent, the material stopping his fall as she charged forward and grabbed the big fucker by the front of his shirt and snarled her answer in his face, having to yank him down to her height to do so. Anger getting the best of her, making her say things she wouldn't have dreamed of saying if her head was screwed on right.

"How do you not understand? How can you be so brilliantly smart, yet so fucking dumb at the same time? I keep you and everyone else away so you don't die on me! There've only ever been two people I can categorically say I've ever fully let in, Mary, my mother, who isn't my fucking mother as it turns out and Eddy, my best friend, my brother! Do you know where they are Charles? Six feet under and nothing but fucking bones. They're dead! Fucking dead!"

It was a hailstorm of lightening and thunder and repressed thoughts and feelings zapping out of her, filling the room of the tent, and unfortunately, aimed at Vane who was her punching bag for the moment. But she wasn't even remotely finished yet, not when Vane, that blind idiotic fool couldn't see what she did. She was looking out for him, for Bonny and Rackham, for everyone by keeping her distance. That way, they wouldn't die. That way, if they did, it wouldn't hurt her as much as if she did let them in with no holds barred.

"Because that is what happens. Flint, my father, is the same! You venture too close to a Flint, you peek beneath that Vail but once, you pay the price with your life! The family fucking curse! Nothing good ever comes of it! Yet, knowing this, subconsciously at least, you... Miranda, Silver, Bonny, Rackham, you're determined to follow through! Well, I am not willing to let you! Excuse me your Lordship if I don't want your bodies laying prone at my feet! You wanted trust Vane, you never mentioned anything else, and you have mine wholeheartedly! But that is all you, or anybody else, will ever have!"

Clara pushed away from Vane violently, stumbling backward towards the table with a loud and clear shouted 'fuck!'. Spinning around, caught up in her rage, breathless, Clara flung her arm out and sent the things housed on the table flying to the floor in one sweep of her arm. Eyes clenching tightly shut, breaths heavy, Clara's heel of the palm came to her forehead as she dug it in there, beyond tense as she tried to reign everything in, wishing she could take the words she had shouted back inside of her, pretended she had never said it, pretending Vane had not heard her, wishing this never happened. But she couldn't, it was already done. When she did speak, arms flopping to her side as her energy left her in the wake of her outburst, back still to Vane, her voice was even, cold and dead.

"Just leave."

All was noiseless apart from the gallop of Clara's heartbeat and her breaths and then she heard the ruffle of fabric, a few steps and all was silent again. Clara had come to believe Vane had just left like she had wanted him to, when his voice piped up from behind her, close, closer than she thought he would come after her mini explosion.

"No."

Clara frowned, muddled by his barked and hard answer. Twirling around, Clara almost took a step back when she noticed how close he really was, but instead managed a bewildered repeat of his answer.

"No?"

Vane's hands clamped down on her shoulders, leaning slightly down so he could look her eye to eye, face free from any frown or scowl or glare, but something hotter burning behind all the sharp and regal features of the landscape of his face.

"I said no! Do you see me as some weak, mindless lad? I hate to be the one to set you straight, though, it seems I'm the only one willing to do so, but I've faced death longer than you have likely been able to walk. Do you know what I think? I think this Mary and Eddy died because they coddled you. They didn't look beneath the surface, they are the ones who skimmed the top and saw you as the fragile and delicate girl in need of protection, and in so, treated you as such. Flint, Silver... This Miranda whoever the fuck she is, likely see the same painted picture too. I, however, have no such problem. I see your fire, your will, the grit and dirt and iron core inside and I know who you can, and will become given the chance. Given the right tutelage."

Vane's nostrils flared as he took in a deep breath, teeth grinding in anger before he carried on. Clara couldn't cut in, couldn't try and set him straight that she might, after all, be that weak and fragile girl people had seen her as, that Mary and Eddy didn't coddle her, they just... Looked out for her, like you would for a loved one, and had died because of it, because of her. She couldn't really think, in fact, her mind going blank.

"They see a girl lost and frightened, I see a woman finding her place in the world finally. They see someone wounded and in need of tender care and hardy protection, I see someone who was strong and stubborn enough to scrabble back to life with a vigour I have not witnessed before. That Silver boy didn't save your life that day, no, he gave you a reaching hand to pull yourself back. You did that, you did the fighting, not him. They see someone to protect and keep blinded and crippled, I see a fucking equal. But you will never... Never be an equal to me or anyone else if you do not start to see what you can become. Not who you are right now, not who you were, but who you will be if you actually tried and not pretended, going through the motions, reading your life's script but putting no emotion behind it. Don't think I haven't noticed, your hearts in it, but you keep getting distracted, by this, by that, by what you think you can't or shouldn't do. The world, the whole fucking world is out there, right out that tent, I suggest you fucking take it before someone takes it from you."

Clara was silent, for once, not sure she was even breathing at this point as she looked into Vane's fierce eyes. She had the passing thought before that Vane could see what she would become given the right guidance, but she had never thought it would be that much, that he thought he could see all that... In her of all people. The bastard. The pauper. The stain on Mary's name for simply being born. The pickpocket. The baker. The schemer. She was all that, true, she could not change the past, but she was so much more. She could become so much more. If her plan was going to succeed, if she was going to take Nassau from the English and Eleanor, then she would need to be more.

She needed to be tall, as grand, as vicious and ruthless as her plan was. She needed to be better and she was only ever going to get that way if she did what Vane said, throw all her eggs in, pour her blood, sweat and tears into it, give it her all and not straddle the fence of diplomacy she had been straddling since her arrival. She... She needed to be an equal, to the pirates, to Guthrie, to Nassau itself. She needed to step carefully, but she needed to start putting the gears in place, ready for that day. Clara blinked dazedly as Vane pulled away from her.

"Yet again, I didn't come here to argue with you, despite how you manage to aggravate me so. Anne is in her tent, she's been looking for you. You had better find her before she loses her temper and patience."

Vane gave her a nod, tearing his eyes from hers, turned and marched to the tents entrance, holding the fabric back and open with one hand as he paused there, figure blotted out and darkened into a shadowed cut out against the bright sun from outside.

"Before you go, put some breeches on. You're lucky it was I that walked in and not one of the other crewmates. I don't need our crew getting the wrong thoughts or ideas planted inside their minds about you, let alone the urge to act should it follow."

Then he was gone with the curtain of the tent flapping shut behind him, separating Clara from him. Clara didn't miss the emphasis he had put on our. Our crew. Hers and his. He had re-infirmed what she had told him back on the Ranger as they sailed into Cocos island, that is was where she belonged... As an equal.

* * *

Clara side stepped into Anne Bonny's tent, or rather, Rackham's who was sharing it with his other half. The light was dimmer in here, the material that made up the tent being a thicker resource than Clara's, but her eyes soon adjusted to the change in lighting within a few seconds. Anne Bonny, in the same Clothes Clara had always seen her in, large brimmed hat included, was sat at the table in the middle of the medium sized tent, larger than her own, with her back to her, a seat that matched her own pushed up beside her, as if the older woman was awaiting a visitor.

Bonny turned in her seat slowly, only a twist of her head as one eye peeked over to Clara from over the woman's shoulder. Bonny didn't say anything, no hello's or welcome greetings, not even a smile as she carelessly waved a hand to the seat beside her, silently offering Clara a seat, or as Clara felt, demanding she took it. Clara, now lazily dressed in all her clothes, fortified her spine, pushed her shoulders back and marched into the room, head held high, determinedly pulling the chair out swiftly and took a seat.

Bonny, who Clara could now see was drinking from her own bottle of rum, picked another up and dumped it in front of Clara with a bang against the table, pulling her hand back as soon as the bottle landed and took an excessively long drink of her own. Clara watched the woman from the corner of her eyes, more than a bit weary and uneasy as they sat there in silence. She remembered her lessons from her, and while Vane may have the reputation to back him up, Clara knew all too well how dangerous and deadly Anne Bonny could be if tested, she had seen it first hand. Only an imbecile would not be cautious of the woman currently sitting next to her, drinking as if Clara wasn't there. Anne flickered her gaze to Clara and then down to the rum bottle, scoffing a retort to Clara that practically reeked of being an order and not a question.

"Drink."

Stretching over to the bottle, Clara popped the cork and took a swig, turning over this bizarre situation as much as she turned the warming rum around her mouth with curls of her tongue before swallowing. The silence was oppressive and impressive, Clara could swear she could feel it prickle against her skin and burden her shoulders and after two more sips from her rum, Clara broke it, turning to face Bonny in her seat. Even if the woman did snap and go for her swords, which she still had strapped around her waist, it would be better than sitting in this dim tent, in silence, drinking.

"If you don't mind me asking, what is this all about? If this is about training, why not meet me on the beach instead of here?"

Anne froze in place, rim of her bottle halfway to her mouth, scrutinizing Clara from the corner of her eyes, running them up from her boot clad feet to her topmost curl that would not sit in its place like the rest of the curls she had managed to wrangle into something that could look like a plait, in the right lighting that is. Thank god survival didn't hinder on the management of one's hair, Clara would have surely died years ago, not that she had an easy hand with how thick, boisterous, long and wild it was. She should really consider cutting it soon

"Ain't nothing to do with training... Fuck. I ain't no good at this."

Clara stayed silent, having had enough of her own tongue running off without her lately, kept it under lock and key and patiently waited for Anne to carry on, knowing she was trying to find what it was she wanted to say. Plus, if she prodded Bonny, she was sure the woman would just say fuck it and then either leave or slit her throat. Clara didn't fancy either of those options.

"Word going around the crew is you died. Vane ain't said jack shit about it, not even to deny it, but he doesn't have to. The men out there gossip enough as it is. Jack told me what happened back with that man'o'war, what you did to him... For him. The thing is if you did actually die 'cause of it, then that could have easily been Jack in your place. But it wasn't, only 'cause you shoved him out the way and took the hit yourself. That... Well, least you deserve is some fucking rum from me."

When looking back at this moment, Clara would willingly admit her reaction was neither cordial or even remotely warranted by Bonny. Though to be fair, she had gone through a lot over the last few weeks, died and only just gotten out and away from another argument with Vane, which wasn't uncommon, but still left her emotionally drained each time. So who could really blame the red haired teenager when she gaffed, slammed her hand onto the table, form hunched, eyes crinkling in the corner and broke out into laughter and questioned Anne between her fits of chuckled and cackles?

"Is this... Is this a bloody thank you? From you of all people?"

Anne scoffed at Clara, snatched her bottle back up and took a long gulp, jerking the bottle away to wipe at the trickling liquid that had dribbled down her chin with the back of her sleeve roughly. Clara could only laugh harder at the unamused glare chucked her way by the irate pirate woman. Honestly, when stepping in, damn, even when Vane had told her Bonny of all people were looking for her, this was the very last thing she had expected, and she had expected a lot to go down. One of them being a derisive beat down for getting Anne and Rackham bellow deck when the cannon fire hit its crescendo.

"Do not push it, Red. Just shut up and drink."

Had she fallen asleep at some point and this was all a vivid dream? Had she fallen over and bashed her head on a rock? This day was growing increasingly weird with each passing hour. While given to her in an argumentative form no doubt, she had still gotten praise from Vane, actual god given praise and encouragement from the hard headed and volatile bastard and now she was receiving thanks, in not quite the right words, from Anne Bonny?

What was next? Would Rackham dance into the tent next in a flutter of frills, smile and offer her how to dress adequately and lady like? Give all his tips and tricks on fashion? Clara wasn't sure she wanted this odd day to end or carry on with this new and funny reality she found herself in. Her chuckled dying down to a few here and there, Clara thought she might have liked the latter more than the former. Picking up her bottle, Clara peered down the neck to look at the amber liquid inside, swirling it around idly and watching it create a little whirlpool, still grinning as she spoke up.

"How much rum are you offering exactly, in this thanks that is not a thank you?"

Now it was Anne's turn to laugh as she turned to face Clara, scanning her once again, shaking her head side to side in amusement. Her smile was true, not like the wolf-esque ones Clara had seen on her face before, the ones that terrified even grown men, but delicate, wide and toothy. Clara would admit, if ever asked, that Anne, smiling as she was, as free from her mask of anger and indifference for once, really was a beautiful woman, from her tempestuous soul to her sun-kissed skin.

"I knew there was a reason I liked you Red. Drink up, for we have crates of the stuff in this tent alone."

Clara grinned audaciously, tilting her bottle to her lips and downing half of the full bottle in one go, enjoying the path of fire it burned to her belly, slamming it down when she needed to breathe. She, Clara, was going to celebrate! She was going to take a day off! She was going to let go of her worries and plans for one day and one night and just enjoy the fact that she was first mate, she had climbed up a step on the hierarchy of piracy. That she and everyone else had won and got their gold from the Spanish formidable ship. That she was still god damned breathing against the odds fate was determined to stack against her.

"Good. You better crack a crate open because that Anne, is how you really say an adequate thank you."

Anne laughed, lifted her bottle up and in a jolly mood, Clara clinked hers against the woman's, both drinking heartily to the casual and lethargic toast.

* * *

 _6 HOURS LATER_

In another tent, the largest on the beach of Cocos island, just down the beach a bit away, was one Charles Vane and Jack Rackham, sitting at a broad table, maps strewn across the wood, murmuring between themselves, going over plans, the crew and everything that came to mind. Night had fallen around them steadily but surely, the transfer of the gold going well, despite the island men and the Ranger crew's silent treatment of each other and the few exchanged heated looks. The main topic had turned to Nassau and the possibly less than welcoming greeting they would garner on their trip back, what with absconding with half of the Urca treasury.

However, their discussion was cut short when Anne Bonny stumbled in, getting tangled in the flaps of the entrance and fighting them off with lazy bats of her arm, nearly falling to the floor when she did get free from the tangle of limbs and fabric. Confusedly, she came to a bumbling stop, taking in the tent that was lit up with a spare candle here and there, eyes squinted as she surveyed the area.

"Wrong bloody tent... Fuck it."

Anne was in momentum again, staggering over to Vane's own pile of blankets and pillows, falling down and laying on the padding face first, arms and legs stretched out around her like a starfish. Rackham and Vane, having stopped their talk as soon as Anne had entered, confusedly shared a glance before looking back at the nearly passed out pirate that had taken Vane's bed without a please or thank you.

Rackham gradually eased himself out of the chair and wondered over to Anne, bending down on his haunches by her side, hand gently coming to rest on the back of her shoulder blade, only now taking in her missing coat, hat skewed on her head, only hanging on by some miracle of gravity, her one missing boot and the empty blown glass bottle tightly gripped in her hand. Cautiously, Rackham shook her shoulder.

"Anne, dear, love, are you drunk?"

One of her eyes cracked open, squinting up at him, long hair falling across her forehead and jaw, hiding most of her face that the velvet cushions didn't.

"Yeah, a little. Think you were right about Red having Irish blood running through her, if nothing else, the littlest fucker of the Ranger knows how to drink and hold it. Some of the lads passed out way before she even began to get slightly drunk, made some pretty coin from winning those bets."

Rackham's head snapped around to Vane as the man let out a groan and shoved out of his own seat, storming over to them with pounding steps and little clouds of up kicked sand. Now, that was an odd reaction Rackham noted. Rackham himself saw no problem with little Red getting drunk, letting go for a while, it wasn't like any of them in this room didn't drink, it pretty much came part and parcel with being a pirate. Though, that could be his gratitude of her saving him from cannon fire shining through and colouring his judgement. Vane didn't seem to suffer the same dilemma and gruffed at the more than slightly inebriated Bonny.

"And where is Clara now?"

Sighing heavily, face burying itself deeper into the pillows underneath it, eyes still shut, Anne raised her arm up high, the one not holding the rum-less bottle and floppily waved the two of them away, shuffling her shoulder free of Rackham's grasped as she snuggled down into the bed. Her words were slurred, muffled by cloth and hair and nearly unintelligible, but the two men got the gist and most of the words, even if it did take a bit of pondering to do so.

"last I seen, she was at the main bonfire with the rest of the crew getting to the bottom of her bottles. Dancing, singing, even convincing, somehow, some of the lads to strip off and take a dip in the sea. Got to give it to her, when she ain't being sarcastic or trying to play you or trying to sink her teeth into someone's throat, the girl knows how to have a good time."

Anne's hand flopped back into the bed, laying stationary there once it had settled. Vane huffed and turned, in long strides marching towards the tent and leaving into the night without any further question. Rackham glanced between the exit of the tent and Bonny, debating on what his next course of action should be when he realized it was pointless. This was Vane and Clara, the proverbial tsunami of a Captain and consistently erupting volcano that was the short redhead. If this was going to end one way, Rackham would place his bets on a barbed argument that would likely lead to fists and knives. Leaning down, Rackham whispered to Anne, knowing she would not hear him as she had already passed out, but feeling better to do so anyhow.

"You stay here dear, I'll be back before you know it and then I'll help you get to bed... Your proper bed."

With one last comforting pat to Anne's back, more for his benefit than her's for he was sure he was going to be swept up in a fight between two people he didn't want to get between, Rackham dashed out of the tent with a nervous tug and straightening to his scarf, and by some higher power, managed to catch up to Vane in a jog just before they hit the main Bonfire that was situated smack bang in the middle of their camp.

Just as they took a sharp right around a tent that stood in the way, both Vane and Rackham came to an abrupt stop to the sight that received them. The bonfire was spitting flames up high, an overabundance of wood having been chucked on and fuelling the flames higher. Most of the crew, a spare few missing, who could be the ones passed out cold on the sand, were laughing and bantering between themselves loudly, jostling one another playfully, some topless as the danced around the fire with hands gripping drink, a couple were even nearly naked, only left in their under briefs. Others were holding each other's shoulders, swaying side by side as they slurred and shouted out sea shanties horribly off tune, spearing through the chatter around them and echoing in the night. Rackham bewilderedly looked around with wide eyes, it was like taking in a Greek fresco, or immoral play came to life, Pan and his ever dancing and joyous nymphs. Thinking about Pan, Rackham finally clocked their very own wild god as she came around the fire.

Her mane of fiery curls were free and loose from the plait Rackham had come to associate with her, the curls having grown long and brushing her waist. The golden red turned molten and shimmering from the camp-fire light, her pale skin and orange glow from the fire only exaggerating the lively colour. She was barefoot, breeches rolled up and stuck just bellow the knee, her shirt loose and un-tucked, but like her breeches, rolled up to the elbows. Two rum bottles were in her hands, which were held up high, spilling drink into the sand and fire, making the flames splutter and flare uncomfortable close to Clara as she twirled and danced her way around the bonfire, the men automatically making room for her as she glided passed, egging her on, joking with her as she joked back, broad, mischievous and simply impish dimpled grin lighting up the night better than any fire could.

Even though Rackham had Anne, his cut-throat other half to his very core, he would fully and gladly admit that if he was a painter, he would immortalize this very moment. For Clara, in that moment, surrounded by men twice her size and meaner than many, who made way for her, listened to her, was a visage of abundant and uninhibited beauty. Wild, untamed, vivacious and ferocious and as uncontrollable as the fire she danced around. Flame, cinder, hot coals, magma... Life in all its fiery aspects taking human form in this small and deceptively delicate and innocent package that was Clara. Clara, Pan, the fluted god of nymphs, it had a certain ring to it Rackham would admit.

Though, as things often did in the life Rackham led, the renaissance masters dream of a picturesque masterpiece was unconditionally shattered irreparably when Clara in all her magnificence lost her footing, staggered backwards in a last ditch effort to stay standing, tripped over the driftwood log behind her and went crashing to the sand flat on her back with a loud oomph, a flail of her arms that unbelievingly still held onto the rum bottles, her feet getting caught up and tangled in the spokes and jutting knots of the large log. Vane made a bee-line jog for the fallen redhead, pushing through the crowd without a care, the men parting like the red sea for the Captain to pass, Rackham following in hot pursuit, only to be held up by the men that had jolted out of Vane's way, but refused the same curtsey for him or were simply too drunk to realize what they were doing as they stumbled around.

As they came around the log, Clara finally looked up at them, limbs skew-whiff as she propped herself up on her elbows, beaming a smile at the pair that didn't hold the normal dose of sarcasm or dark humour twist it normally housed, something that made Rackham smile back at. She had one of those bright, cheeky grins, her freckle dusted nose curling up slightly, big and wide and completely infectious. Rackham thought, if only she smiled her true smile a lot more often, she would save herself a lot of hurt, or arguments from Vane, as from the corner of Rackham's eyes he could see his normally foul mouthed and foul tempered Captain trying to fight back his own answering smile. Though, in all fairness, you would only be able to tell he was doing such if you had known him as long as Rackham had.

Drunkenly, Clara's arm shot up, cradling the rum, and shook the bottle vigorously as she slurred, London accent thick and potent and ever so common. So common in her tongue that Rackham jolted slightly. While sober, Clara, while with a mouth of a sailor, was well pronounced and clear, nearly passing for a Ladies speech if not for some of the slang she used. Maybe she wasn't as rich, or as high up in society as Rackham had believed. You didn't get an accent like that by practice, you were born with it, however, clear speech was practiced.

"Ay! Ye want some drink lads?"

Vane reached down and instead of going for the bottle that Rackham thought he was going for, wrapped a hand around the girls wrist and gently tugged her to a stand, all the while Clara went to take a drink, which Vane promptly swiped from her, less gently this time. Clara pulled her head back, her lips turning down as she blinked up at Vane, swaying on her feet as she pulled the other bottle close to her chest, as if in the act of protecting it from any unwarranted snatching attempts that might follow.

"I believe you've had enough Red."

Clara shook her head, curls bouncing around her as she took a step back, and if Rackham thought she wasn't drunk before, he now knew for sure she was for what took place next. Clara lifted her rum up, in mock salute to Vane, winked... Yes, winked at the feared Captain and rambled on cheekily.

"No' nearly as half as much!"

Then, as if that wasn't enough and Rackham didn't already feel like someone else was wearing the redhead's skin, pretending to be her, Clara lifted the bottle to her lips and downed the nearly full bottle in one fell swoop, something Rackham would have trouble with himself, and god knows he was partial to his rum. She then proceeded to wipe her mouth on the back of her hand, flung her arm back and then chucked the bottle at the driftwood log, chuckling as it smashed and rained to the sand in glittering chunks. Once again, the redhead was off, leaping onto the leg and looked back over her shoulder to the two men, still grinning that brilliant smile.

"Watch this! Oy, lads! Ready, one, two, three, four!"

Holding her hands up, then moving them like a conductor of an orchestra, the drunk men around them quieted, only to begin to sing all as one, off key, someone in the back sounding like a drowning cat, and more than a few hiccuping here and there, Clara joining in as she stood proudly on the log.

"Rule the Ranger, the Ranger rules the waves, Britons never, never, never shall be safe!"

Rackham clapped, liking and finding this twisted version of rule Britannia humorous, but his clapping died out when he spotted the look Vane was shooting him, hands coming up to nervously tug at his scarf and then scratch the back of his head. However, the crew found it joyous as they broke into laughter, danced merrily and drank deeply.

Vane sighed, a new habit of his it seemed when it came to Clara, stepped forward and wrapped an arm around the red heads waist, picking her up and plonking her back into the sand in front of him, trying to lead her away from the crowd and likely to her bed where she could sleep the drink off then face the consequences of a hangover in the morn.

"Red, you need to be weary of using your leg too much. It isn't fully healed yet."

Clara, fainting a move to the left, then skidded to the right and stumbled past Vane, heading back to the crowd. Rackham would give it to her, even drunk she was still a tricky one. However, knowing Vane only had so much patience, and by now it was surely wearing thin, though he tried to show restraint to Clara, which was confusing when Rackham thought about it, Rackham shot his arm out and snagged Clara by her shoulder, halting her from walking any further and beginning to wrangled the five foot three woman, who was a lot stronger than she looked, to Vane. Rackham almost laughed, in fact, he did choke on the chuckle that burst forth as he tried to hold it back. He had never heard Clara even say please before, let alone sound like a child whining over the wooden toy their parents weren't willing to buy for them from the local toy shop window.

"Ye don' know me own leg! I do an' it no longer hurts!"

Vane looked heavenwards, to the twinkling stars as his shoulders sagged, or what Rackham thought was sagging, but the twitch from them and when he looked back down, back to Clara, Rackham realized was actually silent and repressed laughter. Rackham didn't know which was an odder sight, Clara being none snarky, friendly even and unguarded, or Vane nearly laughing at an unguarded Clara's whine, appreciative glimmer to his eye as he watched her. Now that... That was interesting.

"Not now you won't, you're drunk. But come morn, I swear you will feel it, and a lot worse. Now come on Red, the men need their sleep and you need to rest your leg and sleep this off somewhere that is safe and not under a log or in a bonfire, or the bloody sea."

Vane tried to lead her off again, but Clara was having none of it, yanking her arm from the grasp of the Captain, nearly falling over the same log again as she dug her bare heels into the sand, addressing the merry crew around her one last time.

"As first mate, me first official order is ta drink till ye can't stand!"

The men, the Ranger crew was in sync in their reaction to Clara's outburst and 'official' order. Lifting their cups up, some not having anything to hold simply threw their fist in the air and huddled together around the fire, roaring their approval of the order and Clara herself. Rackham indulgently shook his head, most of the men looking like they were well passed due to falling flat on their faces in the first place. Their stock of rum, the one that was meant to last them until they ventured back to Nassau, must have been decimated at this point.

"Aye, aye first mate!"

And with a shaky twirl, Clara stumbled away from the crew, making Vane and Rackham jolt into action to catch up. Even pissed it seemed Clara didn't like manhandling or the blow to her pride it created. However, when she nearly crashed into a tent that wasn't her own, Vane scooped up her arm once more and began to partially drag her to his tent and thankfully, they all arrived in one piece with a few near misses from Clara.

Rackham, now more than a little tired and in full knowledge he would need his wits about him tomorrow, for when Anne woke up hungover, she would be in a mood from hell, and likely lash out at him. She always did when she rarely fell into the state she was now, and god knows what state Clara would be in, so he made a go straight to her, bending down and wiggling her sleeping form into his arms, head in the nook of his elbow and holstered her up, making his way back to the exit of the tent, determined to get himself and Anne to bed so he could at least catch a few good hours of shut eye.

Rackham heard shuffling behind him just before he slid out with Anne safely in his arms, and in curiosity, glanced back to their Captain and first mate one last time before he left. As odd as it was to think, Vane with his temperament and all, Clara in her drunk state would be safest with him out of anyone on this island. Although, with this insight that Rackham had gained, he wondered why he believed that. Vane's and Clara's... Less than welcoming approaches and blazing arguments were no secret, not even amongst the crew, which made a wonder as to why, when knowing if the two had knives or guns on hand and got into it, he was sure they would use said weapons, why he did not believe if it came down to it, really came down to it, either would rather hurt themselves than the other. However, as he looked back, he may have the answer to the question that had suddenly bugged him so.

Vane had dumped Clara onto the bed, trying to keep her on the makeshift blankets with little shoves and hushed words of trying to convince the small lady to take it. Clara, as always, was matching Vane step for step, shoving back and trying to scramble back up, telling Vane to back off and her bed would be perfectly fine, or his chair, she was smaller than him at any rate and he needed it more than her. Which, with a still-sore leg she couldn't feel the pain of because of the drink, and being drunk, was sort of untrue. Come morning, she was going to be in for a world of hurt.

But in that time, that small glimpse at the real dynamic of the pair, without the arguments, threats, lessons, sarcasm or downright nasty remarks they could and often did throw at each other, Rackham saw what really laid underneath it all. They... Cared, he didn't know if that was the right word for the full context he was actually witnessing, but it was the easiest thing to name it. They cared for each other.

They, Vane sitting by Clara on the sand while they argued back and forth, reminded Rackham of the Arthurian legends his father used to tell him when he was no higher than his knee. Vane was no knight of the round table and Clara was no lady, for sure, but in the soft candlelit tent, bantering back and forth, easy smiles on their face that showed their contentedness under the sharp retorts that just seemed more of habit than actual discomfort or holding any true meaning, was like looking at a modern Sir Lancelot and Genevieve. Rackham frowned deeply as the scene played out before him, wondering who was king Arthur in their little fable and if, like before in the legends, if Camelot would crash and burn around them, because of them...

Rackham vigorously shook that line of thought out of his head. Life was no fable, and come morning, Clara would be back to her old self, likely worse due to the hangover and the two would go back to arguing over every little thing. All would be right in the world, north would be north and the sea would still crash against the shore. Although, as Rackham slipped out, he knew that wasn't fully true. He had seen what he had seen, he had seen underneath the masks the two diligently wore around each other and spotted what laid beneath, even if they didn't realize it was there. And come sunrise, and beyond, he was sure he would never be able to forget it, or not be able to see the same emotions and... Care, yes, he was still going to use that inadequate word when it came to them, simmering under the surface when the two interacted.

* * *

"Just take the god damned bed, Red!"

Clara huffed and shuffled back onto the bed, having had enough of hearing the same sentence repeated, again, and again, and again. However, she couldn't let him fully win, so she reached behind her head and snatched up a pillow, wiggling free one of the blankets underneath her and chucked them at Vane, more than a bit amused as the pillow hit him squarely in the face and the blanket wrapped around his torso. The persistent and stubborn Captain deserved it, and more if she was in the mood to give it to him and not feeling more sleepy as the flame of the one lit candle flickered side to side from the night's breeze.

"I am but small, I don't need all this... Frills and shit. There's plenty of space on the floor. Or ye can sleep in the chair, get a crick in ye neck and be a bigger bastard than ye normally are come morn. See if I give a flying fuck."

Clara's accent, while in her inebriated state, while normally only showing a hint of lower class, now rang true with the harshness of a thick London commoner twang, forcing Vane to re-evaluate what he had come to guess of Clara. He had originally believed, while not being at the top of the social totem poll, she was more well off than most. Now, however, in her dry drawl and lazy speech, he changed that idiom to what fit better, Clara had been low, maybe the lowest, but had learned to paint on the face of a lady. Likely to get herself out of trouble she consistently dug herself into. He had to admit it worked, for he had been fooled too, and he didn't get tricked often, if at all.

"Fine. If it will shut you up and get me some fucking rest."

Setting the blanket and pillow out, Vane made sure to keep a bit of distance from his, now Clara's bed but to not set it up too far away, just an inch or two from her side. He wouldn't put it passed the wily redhead to sneak out when she believed him asleep, at least this way she was boxed in and would have to trample over him to get to the exit. Simultaneously, if someone unfriendly should enter, or something should happen, they too would have to get over and through him before reaching Clara.

Before settling in for the night, Vane strolled over to the lit candle on his desk, leaned over and blew the candle out, descending the pair inside to darkness and silence. Sliding onto his bed, by Clara, he could just see her form, nothing more that a slightly humanoid form in the night, curled up on her side, back to Vane. She must have felt his eyes, for her head peeked around, one summer blue eye that he could see clearly despite the blackness around them, blink open at him, locking straight onto his gaze. What she said next, eerily sombre and even despite her drunkenness, made him bite his tongue until he felt the trickle of blood slip down his slowly closing throat.

"Vane... About that scar you have... That branding mar-"

Vane's muscles tensed. he had believed... Had hoped back in that woman's hut, Clara had missed what that bloody woman had carelessly shown to the world. He had been wrong. He should have known better, the young redhead barely missed anything, it was like an uncanny ability of hers, to pick out people's weakness's in a single glance, filing it away. Though, Vane cut her off, not wanting to hear anything she had to say about it. He had heard it all before, how did a slave boy ever become Captain, it was ugly, he should just burn it off or cut it off. It was always the same, get rid of it, how did you get it, cover it up so I can't see it, how weak he must have been. He didn't get rid of it for the simple fact that it reminded him of everything he had gone through, of everything he had come from, of how far he had come.

A personal reminder that he was never going to be that sad and scared slave boy... Ever again. He didn't need... He really didn't want Clara to be one of the ones to berate him for it, to look down on him because of it. For some reason, he just didn't want that from Clara, couldn't stomach the thought of her thinking that way about him. So shutting her down before she could carry on seemed to be the only option he had.

"Don't. I will not speak to you of this... Just don't."

Now it was Vane's turn to roll over, showing his back to Clara, fundamentally stopping the conversation in its tracks. But when had Clara ever taken social cues, or cues, or even Vane's orders in general? Never, and as he heard her shuffle in her own bed, the sound of cotton rubbing against cotton vibrating around the tent, Vane knew the redhead had not given up, but what she did say was the very last thing he had been expecting, Clara saying things no one had ever said to him before, not when it was in conjuncture of his slave brand.

"Oh for fuck sake Charles, stop jumping to conclusions before ye let a person speak! I don't want to know about it. Ever. Not until ye ever want to tell me of it, of ye own free will. I have no right to know, no ground to ask of it. I just..."

All went dead in the tent, nothing sounding out but the siren-like breaths of both Vane and Clara that echoed in the silence. But, for whatever reason, Clara pushed on with the topic and seemed to find the words she wanted to say and did not wait for a reply from Vane, instead carrying on, sounding suspiciously sober and much like she did at other times, precise, direct and passionate about every single word.

"We, as people, put meaning to things that do not deserve, nor have any meaning. We do that. Like the cross, in reality, it's just two pieces of wood strapped together and hung up. Yet, when people see it, they still bow, they still kneel, still pray to it, ask for wealth, glory, fame, money, pray for it to heal their families or loved ones. When, really, it's just fucking wood. How is wood meant to do all that? It can't and won't, yet no matter, people will still do the same thing over and over. What I'm trying to say, poorly as it is, is that... That brand has no meaning. No power. No magical ability. Nothing but what you give it. In reality, just like the cross, it's just healed skin, knotted back together, stronger than before. Stronger than whatever, whoever gave it to you. You were stronger than them, you survived. You are here and they are not. And if what you told me earlier is true, is really what you feel and believe, that one day I will be an equal in Nassau, as a pirate, in life, to you... Then I have to say I've had one of the best people I have ever known guiding me there... Teaching me. Just, see what it is for what it really is and not what you make it. A scar. You're the one who broke free, who survived, who is a Captain against all odds now. That was you, and if I ever become half the person you are... I think I would be blessed... Goodnight Charles."

After more material brushing against material, all fell silent once more. Vane didn't move, didn't feel like he was breathing as he listened, staring blankly into the darkness around them for what could have been a lifetime. Then life came back to him in a rush and he sprang up, whirling around to face Clara's back as she had rolled back over and away from him. Reaching over, leaning over, Vane grabbed her gently by the shoulder.

"Clara, I think I-"

Vane's voice trickled off when his eyes landed on her face, her peaceful face, cheeks flushed and lips relaxed, long eyelashes fluttering against her high cheekbones. It was too late, she was asleep, sound asleep in the land of dreams. Vane pulled away and flopped back down on his own bed, staring up at the ceiling of the tent. In all honesty, when he had stopped speaking, he had lost what he was going to say, or maybe he didn't know what it was that he had wanted to tell her in the first place. It didn't matter, for it was gone and lost now. Pushing the irritating loss away, Vane's eyes slid shut as he joined Clara in slumber. And during the hot night, if the two rolled around to face each other in sleep, edging closer, no one was there to see or say or think anything of it.

* * *

Clara blinked heavily in the blinding light that cascaded around her as she stood on Cocos island beach, by the shore. She felt like complete and utter shit. Her leg hurt worse than before yesterday, her gut was churning and bubbling, her head pounded with the bass of her heart and she just wanted to sleep.

She had awoken alone in Vane's tent, the memory of getting there the night before blurry and mixed matched, fragmented. She had straightened out her appearance, fixed her wrinkled clothing, plaited her hair and quickly washed her face off in the cold water in the bowl that was left on the table before wandering out and meeting up with Rackham, Vane and a very scowling and bad tempered Anne Bonny. It seemed she wasn't the only one to get shit faced last night by how Bonny's eyes were red and watery.

And now? Now she was standing at the shoreline after everything had been packed up, watching as the men took turns to row back to the Ranger, that was bobbing out at sea, in medium sized row boats, waiting for her own turn, her mind swirling with possibilities that were too problematic for being hungover to think of. When they got back to Nassau, when she did, she wondered how pissed Flint was going to be, how pissed Guthrie would be at the stunt they had pulled. What their counter move would be to react to what she, Vane... The whole Ranger crew had done to their face and reputation.

"A quick word before you leave?"

Clara startled at the voice right over her shoulder, jumping slightly as she swivelled to face the person who had snook up behind her, more than slightly shocked when the Maroon queens smooth, ageless face and dark gaze greeted her, two guards on either side of her arm. Clara braced herself, gave a quick glance to the two men before letting her sight fall and stay on the woman in the middle, voice hesitant as she answered, then turned to face Gareth, who was standing beside her, giving out an order that came naturally to her. Maybe she was meant to lead after all.

"It's your island... Gareth, keep watch on the men will you? They're all hungover and I've had to break up more than a handful of fights this morning. We don't need to spill blood before we even go out on another hunt, or reach Nassau."

Gareth gave her a sharp nod and marched off, following his duty without a single question. It was odd, extremely odd, to someone like Clara, who was so used to being overlooked back in London to have someone carry your task without a second look. But, funny enough, it was something she was willing to get used to, even wanted to. Focusing back on the queen when Gareth had disappeared over to the men lining up, a scuffle already about to break loose, Clara tensed even further when the island queen smiled at her.

"I hear a congratulation is in order."

Clara fell to confusion, hitching one eyebrow high as she looked at the queen with squinted eyes, trying to figure out if the woman was delusional, unlikely, or being sarcastic towards her, or the Ranger crew for actually getting the gold. Clara and her pride for herself and, strangely enough, the pride she had been growing for the crew itself, didn't like either of those ideas. Her crew, the Ranger crew had stood tall under the Spanish fight, damn it, they had weathered it more and better than the damned Walrus did, taking the brunt of it all and still sailing off at the end of it. She wouldn't hear anyone speak derogatorily to her about the Ranger crew, not even this queen.

"Congratulations? For securing the gold? We need no congratulations, it was just an eventuality, not a chance of luck."

The queen smiled brighter, as if what Clara had said was either very approving to her or amusing. Yet again, Clara didn't know whether she liked either the former or the latter.

"Spoken like a true leader. But sadly no, I am not speaking of the gold but you, yourself. I hear you have climbed in rank, significantly, since our last meeting. I will admit, before, when you said of garnering power and people to your side, I was more than weary at the idea, believing, for lack of better words, someone like you, small and at the bottom would be able to do such and in such a short amount of time too. Yet, here I stand, proven wrong. And... I am glad you have proven me wrong. This is most promising. So, yes, congratulations are in order, not many people can out wit my expectations, Clara."

Clara stalled, not just for the congratulations, nor the spark of interest and canny intelligence that shone in the queen's gaze, but with the confusion of wondering how the Island queen, who had not come to meet them since their entrance to the island, knew anything about her promotion on the Ranger. Then Clara smirked as she figured it out, they had been spied on the entire time on the beach by the queen's men. Oh, she was smart this queen, so very, very smart. Before Clara could give her own congratulations to the queen, for outwitting them, the queen interrupted her.

"Talking of expectations, are you still determined to find and fulfill your own?"

The maroon queen began to stroll away, slow enough to give silent invitation for Clara to follow, which she did as the guards slid into place behind them, eyes never leaving the woman by the side of Clara... Or how close Clara walked to her. As they walked, Clara turned her head to face the queen, deadly serious in expression, body language, tone and everything in between.

"More than ever. However, in my last... Venture for the gold, I may have angered some powerful people. One I believe will not hinder or hurt me, the other, however, will want payment. Not only that but if my expectations, as you call them, were to come to fruition, she would definitely stand in my way. I need time to think about how to approach this, how to deal-"

"Eleanor Guthrie. Do not look at me like that dear child, I know more of Nassau than most who live there, and likely ever will. I know this woman, I have heard the stories, and as you have already guessed, my inside men have passed along enough information for me to paint her picture in my head. You have reason to worry, if you didn't, you would be a fool and I do not do dealings with fools Clara. She is nothing short of a viper, I have heard, guarding its nests. Do you know what you do with vipers Clara?"

Both she and the queen came to a stop, facing each other, as Clara frowned and shook her head. She was from England, she had never seen a snake before, let alone a viper. The queen smiled warmly at her, hands clasped together as she leaned forward and answered her own question.

"They grow arrogant just before they strike, they raise their heads and rear back as if they are the gods of the animal kingdom. This is when they are at their weakest, when they are most arrogant, they leave their neck and body bared. In short Clara, you play weak and defeated, then you strike before they can, you grab them by the neck and toss them aside, or snap it and take what is dear to them. What you should be asking yourself is not what Guthrie will do, she will grow arrogant like the viper and prepare to strike, too late, no, you need to figure out what means the most to her, what she needs most to stay in power, grab her by the neck and toss her aside. With a woman like Guthrie, arrogant people, all you need to do is give them enough rope and they will hang themselves."

"... The hunts..."

The hunts! that was it. The one thing Guthrie had to hang over and dangle over the pirates heads, Clara's head. The promise of hunts and prizes. She had shown that power when she had threatened the Ranger crew back on the beach, threatening to cut them off. She had a schedule somewhere, a log book or an informant that gave her the information of where certain boats and ships will be at certain times. Guthrie chose who to tell what, she sold the hunts for the promise of a cut and the help of trading along. The more favourable the pirate to Guthrie, the more hunts he or she would be given. If she didn't have that, she wouldn't have anything to tempt or prod the pirates into line, she would have no favour, or people clamouring for hers for the promise of gold. She would have no power. That would be how Clara grabbed the viper by its neck.

Somehow, Clara needed to find that fucking log book or that informant and either take it or get rid of it totally. With it gone, so would Eleanor's influence and power of Nassau. Yet, she couldn't alert Eleanor, or anybody, that she was doing such. She was on her own... glancing behind her, Clara saw Gareth in the distance, a few men around him. No, she was wrong, she wasn't alone, she had people backing her up now, people who wouldn't spill what she was up too, even to Vane.

"When I first saw you, I knew you were a smart girl. Ambitious, but smart."

Clara turned slowly to face the queen, and the smile that lit up her face was positively devilish. However, before Clara could speak, a shout rang out behind her, turning to face Rackham who was standing by a row boat, waving at her.

"Red! It is time to go!"

Clara nodded, turned one last time to the queen and respectively bowed her head. Oddly enough, the maroon queen mimicked her action and spoke in an even more hushed voice that reminded Clara of running milk and honey.

"Remember Clara, play weak, then grab the viper before it can strike. I expect to see your flag on the horizon soon, until then, my informant on Nassau will keep watch and update me on your plan. Good luck."

And with those parting words, Clara gave back her own good luck and made her way to the row boat, about to sail back to the Ranger, to Nassau, to the snake den. The real fight wasn't running from Flint, wasn't joining the Ranger, wasn't even the battle for the Urca gold. No, the real fight, Clara's fight was this. And as her hand drifted to the dagger strapped to her waist as she walked, clenching at the metal, Clara believed she was more than ready to take this on. Now, after everything she had been through, there was no grey. It was all or nothing.

She would face the English claim of Nassau, she would face Eleanor Guthrie, she would face everything and take it all. She would take it all or with her dying breath and last heartbeat she would burn it all down around them, she would burn them down along with it. Too long had people like her, brothers, fathers, sisters and mothers she had never met, had been kept down and killed in the mud for nothing more than being born to who they were. Bastards, the poor, the lame, the choice-less. They had no homes, no family, Clara would give them all that... And more. Glory or ashes. Those were the two outcomes. She shouldn't be worried about arriving back at Nassau... Nassau should be petrified that she was coming back. She would face this battle head on and she would win. She had to. She would... Or she swore, Nassau would burn.

* * *

 **NEXT CHAPTER:** Clara arrives back at Nassau, Eleanor makes a grave mistake when it comes to Clara, Clara calls men towards her and starts her plan, Richard Guthrie finally pops in, a flashback and someone who is supposed to be dead shows his face...

 **A.N:** This was meant to be one full chapter, however with both chapters together reaching 23,0000 words, I had to split them into two different ones. So, this does affect the smut chapter that is coming up, so if you are patiently waiting for it, I'm sorry but It will come around chapter 22, or at a push chapter 23 (In case another chapter has to be split). I know, I'm sorry, but I get carried away and I'd rather not rush into it and ignore the plot or build up to why and how it happens.

This chapter was a bit of a filler, as I thought you guys might need a bit of an easy one before we hit very heavy plot line that's coming. Let's just say the next few chapters, about five or six, go from worse, to even worse, to downright bloody. After all, trying to take over Nassau isn't an easy task XD

As always, a HUGE, HUGE, HUGE thank you to everyone who reviewed. I read through every single one, repeatedly as I write to give me that extra drive to carry on. They mean a lot to me, and I really do cherish each one. So, I don't think there really is a big enough thank you I can say... Or type. Love to you all!

 **CHAPTER NOTES AND QUESTIONS:**

 **Curious as to how I'm going to keep things interesting with the man'o'war gone and the Urca already in their possession?**

I can't say much, as spoilers, but the gold was never Clara's true focus. The gold is a stepping stone to her, to get to her goal. So while that is over, but will be coming back as shit hit the fan and some backstabbing happens later, it was always meant to be a leading point to the actual plot that is Clara's arc.

What I can say, coming up in the next seven chapters or so is ten points, ones I hope you are looking forward to.

1\. Clara makes a move against Eleanor.

2\. Eleanor makes a move against Clara.

3\. Clara loses herself slightly, becoming darker and darker as she is forced to do something that she never dreamed of, making her become shaded, more brutal and incredibly fixated on taking Nassau from Eleanor, in not only trying to create a 'home' but in retaliation.

4\. Ned Low appears and has an instrumental role with Clara, her arc, and Nassau.

5\. Both Eleanor and Clara try and secretly, and not so secretly, gather people on their sides, using rumours, propaganda, and abuse of their authority.

6\. A very heart-wrenching moment with Flint and Clara,

7\. Clara lives up to her promise, and something does burn down by her own hands.

8\. Vane is unsure of whether to trust Clara anymore, until she gives him a message only he can understand, while growing closer.

9\. Silver and Clara grow closer in a dark moment

10\. Clara, in a bloody and all out an act of war, stamps her name into Nassau's memory and legend in one bloody and burning act, rising in standing, cutting people down, making fear grasp Nassau and makes a name for herself that is beginning to rival that of even her father, Flint.

That is really all I can say, so I hope you see it from where I'm coming, the real plot, the one I've been working towards has only just gotten started and grows quite dark, but equally interesting. And just for the people who asked, Abigail shows up soon too, but won't be a focus for a little while. So, please don't give up on this fic.

 **Rackham/Oc, will she stay as a boy for long?**

No. In this fic, Davina does not stay as a boy for long. Maybe the first and second chapter, but not even as long as her reaching Nassau. She ends up, I can't tell you everything, but she ends up on the boat by accident due to a blind sailor. She doesn't want to be on the boat, obviously as it is an accident, so she isn't going to go along with pretending to be a girl. There's only a blockage because she can't speak English and because of this blind sailor. I hope that eases some of your worries, as I know how tedious stories with this same plot device drag it out and indeed, have the two confessing love a day later when the truth is shown. So no, Davina doesn't even want to be on the boat, it is all a mix-up and she isn't planning on staying on it.

 **Vikings/Oc, is it happening?**

Yes, it is. I can say that nothing has been written yet, but I am working on the plot and idea. I can also tell you it involves a very bastardized version of the legend of Robin hood, is called Arrows and Axes and is likely, still not a hundred percent sure, a Ragnar/Oc fic. That is pretty much all I can, and is willing to say until it cements more in my mind and I work some things out. I hope you guys will enjoy it. :)

 **Critique?**

I'm sorry if my last author/chapter notes gave the wrong idea, I wasn't having a go at anyone. I'm one of those people that like to discuss things. So if someone brings up a point, I like to answer where I am coming from, and I like to hear their response. I know I hate it when I ask someone why they went this way and they never reply, and it continuous to bug me for the rest of the story. I didn't want that, if you are anything like me, to happen to anyone else. Plus, it opens up discussion about things I would never really contemplate in real life and gets me thinking. So, if you do have a point or something that is nagging you, please feel free to leave it and I will try and answer it. Critic, after all, makes better writers of us all. :)

And as I like useless facts that will never hold any meaning in real life, I'm going to start leaving little ones at the end of my Chapters. If anyone has any more, feel free to leave them in a review, or P.M me, I honestly find this stuff fascinating. So, here's the first one.

Next chapter should be out Wednesday, but if not, definitely next Sunday!

Did you know Oxford university in England is older than the Aztec civilization? Apparently so!

Until next time, keep fresh and beautiful! - **GoWithTheFlo20**


	20. Goodbye

Clara, no older than eleven, twelve at a push, giggled as she ducked and dived through the crowd, her partner in crime mere feet behind her, chuckling and running as hard and as fast as she herself was. They had one goal in mind, one last pit stop before they broke apart for their homes that night. The local pub. Well, a pub was a generous name to give the dilapidated building, held up by some form of miracle, with no windows and an always open door, an old wooden painted sign the only thing that told passers-by its name and that in fact, it was a local watering hole.

The pub was always their last stop when they went on their little 'adventures'. Even then, that was used as a very loose term, Clara only using it as a way to sum up what they did do most evenings, a culmination of nabbing things from moving carts, stealing unsuspecting Ladies purses and her friends favourite pass time, pickpocketing. Normally his brother would join them, but he had grown ill over the last three days and had to stay at home, leaving Clara and the older boy to their own devices. What a mistake that was, Clara with her temper, even at this young age and her friend who didn't believe in holding back, that no one, even the sparse navy lieutenant that wandered around their town was barred from his mischievous nature.

William, her friend's brother, was the bridge so to speak, despite being only a few months older than Clara. He was the one to temper Clara and her friend into quiet submission, or at least understanding that their plan might not have been in their best interest. The problem was, lately, William was getting ill more and more often. Clara wasn't afraid to admit it scared her and by the thinning of her friend's mouth and puckered brows when he told her Will was ill, again, he too was scared, even if he would never utter those words. Without William, she and her friend had nearly gotten arrested on numerous times, her friend's innate knowledge of the landscape of London, and which way to run, dive and hop over fences, the short-cuts that only true locals knew to take being the only thing to save them from a jail cell. Even then, Clara thought ruefully, they would at least have three pieces of bread every god damned day.

Clara had nearly ran straight passed the old pub, having once again lost herself in the confines of her own mind when a familiar, scar marked and slightly tanned hand wrapped around her bicep, dragging her to the right and into the shaded and dark pub, the medium wooden sign, held out into the street by a long pole and some iron chains, flapping in the slight breeze. A fox painted in fading and flaking red, wearing a top hat, prowled and curled upon it, the name of the pub etched in white above and below the fox.

 _The Fancy Fox._

If there was one place Clara felt the most comfortable, the closest to an elusive thing called a home, it would be in this pub, this shack that housed coal miners, ruffians, pox-marked faces, a thin layer of dust and dirt on everything, blanketing it. It was outside this very pub she had met her friend, where she had stuck up for William and a bond had formed between them that day, one that Clara believed, in her young and naive mind, could and would never be broken. It was here where her friend had graced her with her nickname, under the sign, bruised and bleeding from the fight with the bigger boys, laughing how her hair was as red as the fox on the wood, the nickname having stuck.

Of course Clara had retaliated, prodding at his common accent, torn and dirty clothing, his bare and dirty feet, the same as hers, calling him a fancy fuck. Although, over time, that nickname had morphed and changed, evolving with the tick of the clock, from Fancy fuck to Fancy, to sometimes if she was lazy, to plain and affectionate Fance. Apparently, two syllables were just too long in the rare hot days Clara would call him Fance.

"Oi Fox, that one in the corner, drinking tha' gin. He has a purse of coins under his coat, left side. Dare ya to grab it!"

Clara snapped too, glancing over to where Fancy was staring. The man was big, obviously in the labouring business by his large frame, gnarled knuckles and coal dusted fingers, black all the way up to his wrist, marring everything he touched with the inkiness. He was pale, nose broken by the looks of it, but his cheeks and nose were a brilliant red, giving away just how drunk the stout man was. Drunk meant slow, slow meant easy target, easy target meant quick cash.

Grinning, Clara looked up at Fancy, Ed, her best friend, her brother, taking him in, feeling her smile fracture, feeling oddly unsettled for no reason. Her gut was sinking, tears were stinging her eyes and her hands were shaking at her side. She couldn't tell you why or how, couldn't even think of the reason herself, but somehow, some-way, she thought, real and true and filled with hardy belief, this would be one of the last times she would ever see Fancy. That couldn't be, she didn't know what she would do without him, without this pub, without their little games, their misadventures. No, Clara thought as she pushed and kicked and battered that horrid feeling down. Ed was going nowhere, neither was William and in the painting of her childhood, she would always be here, with him, doing the same things forever. Just them, always, a sort of common, mortal holy trinity. The son, the father, the holy spirit... William, Fancy, Her.

"Easy. But I dare ya to grab that man's purse, the one by the bar with the feather in his hair!"

Ed, Fancy, grinned at her and sent the younger Clara a wink, already shuffling stealthily to the man she had pointed out. The unease was back tenfold, burning her skin and mind, searing her, but like so many times before, like she does still, Clara pushed it away and carried on, pretending nothing was wrong, edging towards her own unsuspecting target. Reflecting back, when she was much older, Clara would name this day as the day her childhood died or was murdered and taken away from her. One week later, William got arrested for pickpocketing a lord, he died in the jail cell the very next day. Broken, coughing up blood, alone on the damp stone floor. They had thrown his body into the Themes like he was nothing but rubbish to be discarded, not a ten-year-old friend, brother and human being.

Two days after that, Ed, Fancy, her brother went missing. Clara had gone to his house, only to find everything missing, nothing left in the old house that spoke that he had ever been there to begin with and not a figment of her imagination. Nothing. She had nothing to remember him by. Two weeks later, Clara tried to lift a peach from a moving trader, trying fruitlessly to recreate that magic of her games with Fancy, only by herself this time and ended up getting dragged back to the bakery by her ear and learned the truth of her father. Three months after that, Mary Summerfield started growing pale. A month later, she too started coughing up blood just like William.

Clara refused to see the similarities between them, the inescapable truth that Mary would die like her friend had. Denial, pretence and self-told lies were a prettier painting to look at. But at night, when there was nowhere to hide, that painting too faded and flaked like the painting of the Fancy Fox, showing her the bare, torturous truth underneath it. Clara was alone in a world that took and took and never gave back. There was no more Fancy, no more Fox, no more games, no more adventures, no more nothing. Gone. Clara, not once, even going as far as taking a longer route home from the fish market, never visited the Fancy Fox again.

Hunts didn't kill the fox, neither did traps or guns or hounds. No, the truth, the reality killed the fox. And in its place, in the foxes shadow stood a little girl alone, scared, poor, weak, with no place to belong. Clara should have known, foxes weren't a pack animal, they only survived on their own, off their own merit, that was why they were sly, they had no other option but to be. She too would have to be just as the fox was. That was the world she lived in.

* * *

Clara shook her head, more violently than necessary to try and dislodge the memory. Her boot clad feet dug into the golden sand of Nassau, her fists clenched tightly at her side as she looked out to port. They had landed on Nassau about three days ago and no doubt Eleanor and Flint were readying a meeting or ambush for the stunt they had pulled. Questions would be asked, answers told, swords drawn, guns shot. Hopefully, the latter two kept to a minimum, but Clara doubted it with everyone's personalities. They had made off with half of the Urca gold after all and actions like that held dire circumstances.

Clara jostled slightly from being swept away from the dark turnings her mind had taken, noticing her grin had slipped. It was too late to backtrack, she was too far gone, too changed and set on what she wanted and no Rackham, Vane or Silver would deter her from it. After all, she already had Gareth, Louis, Francis and David in place, keeping an eye on Guthrie's, watching Eleanor's every move, singling out the men who came and went repeatedly, watching what they brought and what they took, figuring out which or who was the one passing the schedules along or where those damned elusive books were hidden. In a way, she was building a schedule herself. One that all encompassed the lovely miss Guthrie. It was the first thing she had ordered of the four when they had docked upon land, whispering to them in a shady corner before they left the ship.

Francis and David didn't have the full scope of what Clara was after, she didn't trust them fully not to go running off to Vane or even Eleanor herself if they thought they could get a purse of gold out of it. No, those two believed they were spying for Vane, to make sure Eleanor wasn't planning on any retribution any time soon. Gareth and Louis, however, were fully on side. Louis, silent and big brutish Louis had even offered to terminate Francis or David if one or the both showed signs of wavering. Of course, she declined... For now. She didn't doubt she would ask him to fulfil his offer if one turned, after all, if one turned now in the early stages of her plan, what were the chances they wouldn't try it when she had real power and say to steal. It was best to keep who knew what down to a minimum. That way, if one fell or leaked to an unsavoury person, said person would never know the full plan. Her, Gareth and Louis being the only fully aware ones, and still, Gareth and Louis's knowledge was as limited as it needed to be. The rest, even the ones Gareth had told her would rally to her side if she called, was kept in the dark. They did what she said, but not for the reasons she gave.

They went and checked out the earnings of Noonan's because Vane wanted to make sure the owner wasn't swindling Eleanor out of her share, something she had talked Vane into doing to, as she had told him, to ease the blow of their own swindling, not because Clara was seeing just how much gold and resources Eleanor was sitting on. They talked to other crew-mates from other ships, Clara had told Vane it was in the hopes of cornering out people who were eyeing up his own ship and crew, to push out the spies amongst them, not because Clara was hunting out the Captains that would side with Eleanor when the time came. To her piling lists of things she was becoming, a liar was one of the better things.

Frasier, Naft, Lawrence and Hornigold were the most worrying, from what she had heard from the grapevine and her own strategically placed crew-mates, they were a consortium of sorts. They were getting rich, fat and spoiled with Eleanor's help, they would be the hardest to turn or, if it came down to it, wipe out, all having their own fair sized crews and ships. Though, from what Gareth had dug up earlier that day, Naft would hopefully very soon see reason, as long as Louis did his job and brought back who she had sent him after.

Of course she could simply corner Naft and shoot him through the skull when he's least expecting it, send a message to the rest of the consortium. That did cross her mind, but the opportunity if she brought him on side, through force if necessary, an in to the consortium Eleanor so prized and held dear, well, it would be easy to rip it apart from the inside out and Naft was her open door. Plus, as petty as it sounded, she would rather see Eleanor's face after she thought she had failed rather than the one if she thought someone had taken it from her. It kept Clara in the shadows longer, the puppet master, gave her time to garner more strength, let her play the weakling like the Island queen had told her, it also gave her the satisfaction of one-upping the blonde in the long run.

However, despite all this, Clara was instead focused on the ship she had spotted and had been watching for the last hour, trying to wrangle her brain into gear. She had no idea who it belonged to. It was new and new things meant surprises and surprises on Nassau were never a good thing. So, like the dutiful first mate she was, the second Gareth had strolled passed her, carrying an armful of driftwood for the camp-fire that night and some paper and quill she had requested he bring her, she had dragged him to her, pointed out the ship and questioned whether he knew who it belonged to or not.

Gareth didn't know exactly who it belonged to, no names exchanged, but word from the shipmates from other renowned Captain's of Nassau had filtered passed him and all he could tell her was a new Captain was on their island, cutthroat by the sound of it, scaring most crew mates, even a few Captain's with his... Particular and peculiar ways that often led to bloodshed. There was one piece of info he could tell her, which was the reason for her sudden trip down memory lane, a place she would rather not visit. The ships name.

 _The Fancy._

And in that moment, those two words, Clara had been transported to another life, another time, another Clara. She hated it. Loathed it. How easy she was unsettled by one simple word, it would not do, it could not do, not with how she planned to lead her life. How she must lead her life if she was ever going to win this... Battle? Was this, her taking Nassau from Eleanor a battle? Or something much more incognito, sinister and dirty? Battle had codes, rules, honour to conduct yourself by, what Clara was trying to do held nothing but lies, traps and quick twists of mind. Battle was the wrong word, but the other, the one that kept popping into her mind made her cringe at the thought.

Assassination.

That was what she was really doing, wasn't it? Assassination of rule, assassination of character, assassination of Eleanor herself if she did not step down or move out of her way. For if it came down to it, if Eleanor did not give in or break, Clara housed no doubts, in the mists of it all she would kill the blonde if it meant victory. Dammit... She was meant to be a pirate, a first mate, a sailor under no countries flags, not an assassin. But her hands... They were already blood-soaked, what more insidious damage to her soul could one more death cause? But Vane. Eleanor was... Is important to Vane, could Clara really hurt Charles Vane by killing Eleanor? the answer was murky, debris, pond scum and algae fogging the answer, but Clara didn't think she could, especially if it hurt Vane as much as she thought it would. Fuck.

"Clara, why are you so focused on that ship? Don't you have more important things to worry about? I know if I was you I would be facing Guthrie's, not the ocean."

Clara jerked away from the ocean line, away from the spittle of ships on waves, away from the sun and faced Gareth, eyebrows drawn tight in the middle and a down twist to her lips, the sun at her back blotting out her features. She liked Gareth, she really did, he backed her, fought her corner, damn, she was the first mate because he had stepped up to Vane, but he wasn't her friend. He was her ally. To live in Nassau, to thrive, Clara had found but one of many truths she had stumbled across in her short time. You couldn't have friends, having friends led to betrayals. So, what did you do when an Ally questioned you, prodded you, tested how strong you were? You put them in their place, despite how much you may or may not like them.

"Well, it must be a good thing you are not me then Gareth, for if you were, I'm afraid you may have died a long while ago. Tell me, do you see many new ships docking on the shores of our beloved island?"

Gareth froze at her hardened eyes, swallowing as his scarred arms wound tighter around the bundle of wood under his armpits, his Adam's apple bobbing as he eyed her, likely not expecting her calm and distant voice instead of a smile or her well-known temper flaring. Still, he had enough gumption and survival instincts to answer her.

"No..."

Clara laughed airily, her grin lacking all warmth as she edged closer to the taller man, slapping him on the shoulder good-naturedly as she leaned in to whisper in his ear, both now facing the sea, the crowd roaming around them nothing but a blur of backdrop.

"No? Well then this is a surprise, isn't it? Do you know what I think and know about surprises on Nassau Gareth? They are never in your favour. That surprise there, that boat you think I shouldn't be worrying over could be many things, harmless and dangerous. It could be just another poor man trying to make his way in this world, a trader gone awry into a life of piracy. Yet, it could also be someone who could usurp Vane, it could be someone to kill us in our sleep. It could be a friend of Guthrie's, someone else to try and out plan, it could be an adversary or friend. Who knows? But only an idiot would not take into account all possibilities and try to map them out. If you really think following me is best, learn one thing and one thing fast. I don't like surprises Gareth and neither should you, especially if you are planning to follow me and actually be any help. But before all that, just one piece of vital advice..."

Clara leaned in closer, her lips practically brushing the shell of his ear as she simultaneously pulled him down and tiptoed to reach her goal. She wasn't trying to be harsh to Gareth, on the contrary, she was trying to be easy on him. Rather he learned this lesson now before they travel down the road they were and he questioned her later. Later when she would have to prove even more that she was not one to be undermined. It was a dog eat dog world on this island, one sniff of blood in this ocean and the sharks would descend upon her, upon her allies. Vane, Flint, Eleanor, The island queen, they all had one thing in common. They were never questioned and if she was going to play ball with them, then neither could she.

"Don't ever fucking question me again or it will be the last thing your tongue ever says. You don't need to be able to speak to be of any use to me Gareth, remember that."

Clara pulled away, away from Gareth, away from what she had said, away from the act she must put on to have any hope of succeeding in her little plan. From now on she would have to wear a mask, infallible and unrecognisable from who she used to be, as far from the sand and bruised covered girl who had ran through the tents that very first day. It was the only way she was ever going to win. She only hoped she wouldn't lose too much of herself in the process. Though, there wasn't much left of the little street urchin girl with wonder in her eyes to protect...

She didn't face Gareth again, wasn't sure she could after treating him as such. However, she did reach for his white-knuckled hand and snatch the paper and quill from its tight grip, walking back to the ocean line as she held it up and waved it a little, speaking her resolute goodbye as she did so.

"Thank you, Gareth. You should get back to work before you anger Vane too."

He didn't say or do anything, she would have thought he was still standing behind her if she didn't hear the scuffle of his boots on sand and his hasty departure. It, her treatment of him, didn't sit well in her gut, but it had to be done. Clara knew, she had heard and seen so many stories herself that the ones who believed they had helped you rise to power or standing, believed just as stoutly that they could swipe you down too. In time, she didn't want or need Gareth believing or doing the same. She much preferred him an Ally then an adversary.

Sighing deeply, Clara only moved once she was sure he was gone and couldn't see her shoulders sag or her stance become skew-whiff as she stumbled over to a large rock and plopped down, cradling her head in her hands as she dumped the paper and quill beside her mindlessly.

Clara Flint, daughter of Miranda Barlow and James McGraw died when they left her behind in London.

Fox, a child full of awe and adventure and wonderment had died when her friend had, when her brother died.

Clara the bastard, daughter of Mary Summerfield and some unknown navy lieutenant had died when Flint had shown her the truth on board of Captain Ludford's ship with nothing but a slip of paper.

Clara the woman had died in that cell in Coco's island when that man had tried to get his grubby hands on her and she had killed him, for once not feeling a lick of guilt about snubbing out a person's life.

Clara the fledgling pirate, who thought she could just muddle through this, take it day by day and maybe get away from it all had died on that beach, cradled in Vane's arms as her eyes shut for the final time.

But her eyes had re-opened. The same summer sea shade, the same pale skin, the same curly rambunctious hair, yet not the same at all. Different, it was all different. She was neither here nor there any more. She was lost. She wasn't Clara Flint, she wasn't Fox, she wasn't a bastard, she wasn't the girl who had eaten herself inside out because she had killed. In their place stood someone new, someone unknown, a monstrous blend of all she had ever been. A phantom that held the loyalty Clara Flint did, the cunning and cautiousness Fox did, the devil-may-care attitude and deep burning hate of the higher up's of the bastard and the cutthroat thirst for retribution and blood that the girl held...

The ship wasn't the real surprise for Nassau, no. She, this new her that wore her skin and spoke in the same voice she did was the surprise...

God help them all.

* * *

 _Vane P.O.V_

He found her by herself, away from the crew and crowd as she so often was, both metaphorically and physically, propped against a large rock, paper and quill lying uselessly on her lap, wind blowing through her long hair as she stared out to sea. Even from his distance of a good few feet, he could tell while she was there her mind was gone to some far off land he could never hope to visit. In that moment, as if caught between time and memory, he remembered in a flash on his eyelids her in his arms, dead and limp and... Gone.

Yet, she had dragged herself back to life, damn what that boy Silver had said about resuscitation or whatever he had called it. She had done it, for Vane knew, had seen it plenty with his own eyes, if a man wanted to live, live he would. And she had done the same, came back to glittering life in a sputter and groan and wide sea foam eyes. He knew from the very moment he had seen her, sand on her hands and in a shirt three times too large, curls looking like a tornado had swept them up and around, bared teeth and frown on her face that was more than slightly reminiscent of an ally cat, the ones with pieces of ears missing, that this small woman, bruised and as lost as she was, was a survivor.

But to call someone like Clara Flint just a survivor was a mistake on your part and showed how truly blind of a person you were. She was a whirlwind of fire and brimstone and shards of glass, sweeping up people in her path and dragging them along for the ride whether they wanted to come or not. She was smart, a fighter, mouthy, angry at the world around her, boisterous, headstrong, she spoke before she thought, she argued for the sake of it, she was annoying and foul-mouthed and biting and stubborn and petulant and... Clara. Simply Clara.

The same Clara that was the only one to step up and keep him Captain, to protect his ship and keep his crew whole when no one else would. He would admit he had underestimated the red-head before that point. Thinking she would be easy to bend with time, to acquire and use when he needed, something to put on a shelf to gather dust until he wanted or needed to pull her down for something or other. Something to arm himself with if Flint ever did come for him.

Yet, she was the only one to jump into the ocean and drag him out when he had been drowning under the promise of banishment from a woman who he had given up so much for. No, that didn't quite feel right. Clara was the ocean, the thing that pulled you down and into her world. There, everything was upside down, inside out, left was right and the only way to find your way was to follow the light that was Clara herself. Though, the odd thing was, the thing that worried him most, was he didn't try and swim against it like he should have, he didn't gasp for much-needed breath, instead he willingly sank. It was peaceful in a way. As he had said, Clara had the aggravating ability to make you feel like you've fallen down a rabbit hole if you spent too much time merely in her presence, god knows what happened if you spent years conversing with her or dare he say, friends.

And she didn't stop surprising him from there in out. Faced with battle, with cannon fire and surely death, instead of running like many a sane man would, she ran in its direction. For the gold, for her father, for Silver too likely, but also for him. And how had he repaid that kindness? He had let her die in his arms on some unknown beach, watched helplessly as she slipped through his fingers like plumes of candle smoke and into the afterlife, a bright place with choirs and winged beings if that damned book was to be believed, a place he could never dream of following her too.

He had left that boy to be the one to tug her back, to give her the option of coming back. It still didn't sit well in his gut, no matter if the most important thing was she was still alive and breathing, all sharp-tongued and rosy-cheeked, that she was still in a place he could inhabit too.

He wasn't a fool, despite what many thought about him. He knew why she was so angry, so argumentative all the time, why nearly all their conversations led to her blowing up in fury that made her eyes shine and twinkle just so. She was angry, soul deep and river wide rageful. At him, at Nassau, at the world and how it works. He knew because he used to be the very same when he was branded and chained to a corner, alone and left in the dark, hungry and scared and weak. He knew that anger too well, knew it better than anyone else, knew it needed an outlet or it would burn her to a crisp like it had nearly done to him. So, he played the target, let her lash out at him, prodded her to go against him, she herself made it easy to find the right buttons to press. After all, it was the least he could give her for what she had done for his crew and better aimed at him than someone else that would want to slit her throat for it.

The problem was, since her death that was not permanent, she had stopped arguing with him so much, stopped picking pointless fights, that drunk night excluded. That meant only one thing, she had found a new target, something else to lash out at, to aim her temperament towards. With him, he could help her control it, get over it, but now? Now he wasn't sure what it would bring... What it would take from her, from them.

She was planning something, something big, and he had no idea what it was. Her talks with that damned Island queen, her sudden focus on Eleanor, her unpredictable drop in doing... Well, the unpredictable. It all traced back to the same thing, what she was planning, but she had hidden it, sheathed it in shadows until only she knew what she was up to and even then, with as much as Vane knew her, for he did, he believed he knew her a lot more than any person currently alive, even he didn't think she fully knew what she was up to, what risk's that entailed.

Hadn't he shown her that she could turn to him? Hadn't he told her enough that she wasn't alone? Not anymore? Then why was she so adamant on turning her back on him, for he was sure that was what she was doing, slowly hiding her face, slowly taking steps away, slowly fading into sand grains he had no hopes of keeping a hold on, and by god, he didn't know why that simultaneously angered and scared him in equal measures. Standing on that beach, watching her while she thought she was alone, unguarded, bared, the answer hit him in the gut.

Eleanor Guthrie.

She wouldn't, or couldn't, trust him because of her perceived notion of his ties to Eleanor. And as much as he hated to admit it, even to himself, he couldn't blame her for it. Eleanor, he knew her too well and with the stunts Clara had pulled he would be an ignorant bastard if he believed Eleanor wouldn't want retribution for that. Or a liar. But it wasn't that simple, it never was. He couldn't turn his back on Eleanor, he just couldn't, not after all he had given up for the woman that was becoming more of a bane than a reason to his life.

Edward Teach, the man that had stormed upon his slave ship, faced down another pirate, had seen twelve-year-old Vane in the bowels of the ship wrapped in irons and gaunt, raised his sword and brought it down, causing little Charles to flinch, thinking this was it, only to blink into shocked awareness when he heard the sound of iron splitting and realizing Teach had freed him, leading him above deck with a hard but soft hand. Blackbeard had fed him, clothed him, taught him, became a father to him... And he had turned his back on Blackbeard when Eleanor had called for him to do so.

If he turned his back on Eleanor now then that meant he had betrayed his father, for Blackbeard was such for all intents and purposes, for nothing. Nothing at all. And for as much as Clara needed to give a reason for the turn of her life, the deaths she had caused, for he knew that was what she was doing, he needed to keep the reason for what he had done to Blackbeard. Surely, if Clara ever knew, she would understand. Then he was hit with another revelation, back then, if it had have been Clara in Eleanor's place, he didn't hold a doubt that Clara wouldn't have asked him to choose, to turn his back on someone so important to him. For, even now, she had not asked him to turn against Eleanor, he just knew if he was to keep with Clara, at some point he would have to. But she hadn't and wouldn't ask him to, that was the core of the matter, wasn't it?

However, that didn't mean that it made any of this feel all that better to him. One day, too soon he suspected, Clara would act, would do something, her plan would come to light and he would have to choose, they were already balancing on a thread, a sixty-foot drop bellow them. He honestly didn't know what side he would land on but he did know, with every fibre of his being, until that day came and maybe even long after, he would continue to guide her, stand with her in the shadows, to teach her, be there with and for her, for he knew who and what she would become, maybe just like Blackbeard had seen in him all those years ago.

A northern star in the dreary and bleak night sky.

They were two different sides of the same coin, the same but opposite, him and Clara. Heads and Tails. Tails and Heads. They both needed a reason to live and both had found it in the age old act of fighting. Vane had found his in piracy, in his crew, in his own snipes and victories against the crowns that had let him be sold into slavery. Clara's plan, he was guessing, was her reason, likely involving fighting like his did. But against who was the big question he needed answering. Surely it couldn't just be against Eleanor, Vane just couldn't see that, Clara was a big picture type of person, not singularly locked on the small details. That was the one difference that separated him and her, the factor that made them opposites.

He was okay with taking his retribution against the fouls of his life by the bounties of piracy, another ship taken down was another punch in the crowns face. Clara wanted more, she thirsted for more, she wanted something bigger. How big that was it was anyone's guess, but Vane was sure dead bodies would be littered around, he only hoped Clara's wasn't amongst the faceless... She really was her father's daughter.

Maybe that was what drew them together in this weird dance they were swaying to, enemies, friends, lovers, who knew the name anymore. Clara was extreme, in her emotions, in her actions, in her speech, she didn't or simply couldn't do grey, always black and white and flaming red. And he too was the same. They could keep up with each other, out-do one another, could parry the other. They could be and not worry the other person couldn't handle it because they knew, or he at least knew, Clara would be instep or even ahead, forcing him to push himself harder, to be better, to run faster, and he would do the same to her. If he was a poetic man, which he wasn't, he would say she was the sizzling fuse to his smoking gun. Both useless without the other. The fuel to the fire, the sand to the ocean, the moon to the sun, the storm to the sailing ship. Opposites, but the same.

Vane reacted on his emotions, trusting to follow the many he could name, Clara couldn't tell the difference between anger and happiness on a good day. Clara could wrap people up verbally, running proverbial circles around you with a few churns of her mind, Vane was a man of few words and while he knew he was smarter than many, he was a big enough man to nod and recognize Clara's near genius's turns and odd ticks of thoughts. Vane knew fundamentally who and what he was, Clara was on her first baby steps of at least getting a gist of who she was or becoming. Vane followed his instincts, the pulls his gut took him on, living day by day, believing in today, not tomorrow. While Clara had bloody contingency plans for her contingency plans, believing you couldn't have a tomorrow if you didn't make it today... They complemented and completed each other, two pieces of the same picture slotting together to make a whole.

One.

Before Vane knew it, he was standing beside her, staring at the same sea she was, despite knowing he was right there, beginning to sit on the same rock she was. They didn't turn to face each other, they didn't say hello, they didn't even glance to one another, they didn't have to. Although, Vane did take a gamble and squinted at to paper in her lap, reading the black ink that was being bleached by the heavy morning sunlight. Most of it was just inconsequential scribblings and jarring lines, motions trying to take forms and feelings. Some words he recognized, for Rackham had taught them to her, Hull, Bow, Sail, others he was guessing were tries on her part to learn to write other words, words Rackham hadn't had the time or thought to teach her, but not quite getting them right. That was when he spotted the scrawl on the very bottom right, barely there, squished together, one letter having been dug so hard into the paper it had torn it. Still, even with the poor handwriting that was barely intelligible and the misspelling, he knew what she had tried to write.

 _Chrls Vahn_... Charles Vane.

She had tried to write no other person's name on her little piece of crinkled paper, not even her own. She must have guessed what he was looking at, or had a feeling he would spy it soon, for she spoke, still not glancing away from the ocean and ships that had caught her attention so aptly.

"Let me guess, I've got it wrong? Rackham had made it sound and look so easy. Though, I suppose, I should have expected it to be anything but."

He almost wanted to laugh at her, to childishly point out that now she knew how he felt when it came to her, though he managed to keep his dignity intact. Although, the majority of him felt even more akin to her, remembering a time when Teach had taken him to the cabin to teach him to read and write under candle light and warm blankets Vane's skin had never had the pleasure of feeling before.

"Aye, you're not far off. You've just missed a few letters. Here, come closer, pick the quill up."

Finally, she looked at him and for some strange reason, Vane felt relief. She cautiously did what he had asked, scooching closer on the rock, but never too close as she also flipped the paper to the blank side, bringing her quill to hover over the middle of the paper. Less cautiously than his counterpart, Vane slid over in one movement and reached over, clasping her hand that held the quill in a calloused palm, nearly startling when his own dwarfed and eclipsed hers. Still, he managed to bring himself back to the real world as he guided her hand over to the far left, placing the dripping quill onto the paper, talking as he showed her the motions and actions it took to write, heat from her own hand radiating and seeping into his own cold skin.

"First is C, start here, then around and down. Stop, right there. See, that's a C."

Two hours passed in that small little bubbles before the pair split, Vane heading towards Guthrie and Clara towards Flint to lessen the blow that was to come from the pair respectively, hoping Vane's tie to Eleanor could temper her and Clara being Flint's daughter could work for something. Neither noticed the piece of paper they had left behind on the rock. Both were long gone when the wind blew and the paper took flight, twisting and twirling through the air, flapping passed heads and roaming wanderers, landing in the incoming tide face up. No one saw as the salt water invaded the piece of paper that held two poorly written names, but correct in spelling, the sea making the ink bleed and run together and swallow the paper like black veins and roots as it sank into the blue depths.

 _Clara Flint and Charles Vane._

* * *

 _Flints P.O.V_

Every time he saw her, she grew more and more obtuse and unrecognisable each time. Like a painting, you knew the features, the swerve of cheek or slope of nose, knew the name, but someone else had come along and painted the woman in different shades... Darker shades. Maybe she had done it to herself, or maybe he was only know seeing what had lurked underneath the surface, only now coming floating to the top to scream and curse in his face.

Clara Flint really was his daughter.

It was a blessing to him to have something akin to family so close, a trinket of a life not led, a happy home with him, Thomas and Miranda, physically there to touch, to talk to, to hold, to beseech and see. A curse for her, for he knew what his life had lead to, every bruising and aching step down the path that lead him to become this... Man. This hollow, bled out, pale husk of a human being. And standing at his cabin door, seeing Clara leaning on a window bay, looking all the more like a pirate than he had ever seen her. Her clothes of short white peasant top under a cinched black waistcoat, leather trousers and boots, her hair a array of curls, thin and small plaits, beads, wooden and metal decorating her flaming wild hair, said hair pushed back with a plain and slightly singed bandanna, slither of belts holding a small armoury of knives, a sword and two flintlock guns criss-crossing at her hips. He was also sure, by the way the bottom of her leather breaches swerved into her boot, she had more weaponry hidden on her.

In that moment, seeing how well she had adapted to this hellish environment in such a short amount of time, how fast she had painted her own war colours on and armed herself. How, on a glance, she looked like she belonged here, just like every other soulless sod marring this beach, this earth, he knew she was too much like him, she would follow the same path, feel the same pain, anger, hate, burning loss and he wanted to... Weep.

He would not weep, he would not beg, he would not pray, he would not ask why to a god who did not answer him, he had stopped all those things long, long, long ago. So, he would hold his tongue until it bled, he would watch over her, watch as she likely faced what he had, as she lost, as she bled, as she prayed for mercy until she hardened to stone like he had because, like him all those years ago, she would not listen to reason and she would learn the hard way but she would live. With the life he lead... With the lives they both lead now, what more could he ask? So much more, yet nothing less.

"I thought you would at least frown at me, mayhaps even a bit of slamming things around the room, a yell or two, even a 'Clara, do you know what you have done?'..."

She had her back to him, only having turned around to face him as the door clicked shut behind him and the last word hand slithered out her mouth, dripping with heavy sarcasm. Unwarranted and unwanted, a smirk, lopsided and twisting curled upon his face like a sleepy cat, refusing to move once there. She was definitely his daughter. His child, his heir, his legacy, the one to inherited everything he ever had, ever would have and all those inconsequential things between.

But, he had nothing to give, nothing to leave behind for her but a bloodstained life, though, she looked like she was well on her way to acquiring her very own long before then. It was like watching a play of his life, though, instead of an actor, he was an audience member this time and no matter how many times he shouted for the curtains to close, for the play to stop before things got worse, before Clara could burn and be burnt like he had, he was forced to endure and watch. History was in the habit of repeating itself and the question that ate him up from the inside out right now, whispered poison and acid in his ear, was who were her Miranda and Thomas?

"I can not with an easy conscious say the thought had not crossed my mind. Though, I am proud."

Proud she had lived, proud she had made it this far, proud she was a fighter, proud she had not been silly enough to sit around and be given but to get up and take. Proud. How far had he fallen from his life as a lieutenant? Back then, in that grand house with Miranda and Thomas, he would have... Should have been proud she had learned to write. Proud when she had mastered her first dance. Proud when the tutors came in to tell them how well she had been doing in her studies. Proud when suitors came knocking on their door, only for him to tersely turn them away. But that was a different life, a choice not took, a chance not given.

A still-born life, dead before it was given a chance to bloom.

"Proud? I believed that would have been the last emotion you would have felt after our swift getaway from Nassau with half the Urca gold. Please tell me you didn't lace the gold to get rid of Vane, for I too have touched it."

Clara had taken to wandering his cabin, stalling at the bookcase to idly run her fingers across the thick spines, stopping to rub her thumb on some of the golden embossed letterings. Flint, taking his cue, strolled over to his desk and sat down with a flap of his long coat, never letting his eyes travel far from Clara. Ah, here was the pulp and stone to her visit. Recon to see how pissed he was, how extreme his reaction had been, how far he was willing to go to get compensation.

She didn't need to worry or wonder, it wasn't her he would be gunning for, though he had an inkling it was her plan that had led to this outcome, maybe with some input from that bastard Rackham. No. Charles Vane, however, was another matter... By the smirk spreading on her face, her teeth peeking out from her top lip, almost glinting and the flicker of her eyes to his for a split second, she knew where his mind had wandered and found it amusing. Oh, she wasn't just here for herself then, Vane and she were still... Allies, yes that was a vile twist in the gut he felt, and she was seeking answers for not only herself but for him too and in his slip, be it face, eyes or body language, she had gotten her answer. He chose not to answer her unasked question but divert the conversation.

"Laced the gold?"

Clara's smirk fell and a non-committal hum filtered through the air between them as she turned fully away from him once again, plucking a book from the bookcase to flick through, though, never staying on one page for too long.

"Yes, laced. I thought about it myself. Poison, disease, fungus that kills on contact, really all you need is a bag full of contaminated gold coins on this island and drop it in Noonan's, I bet before nightfall half of Nassau is dead."

Despite the sudden drop in Flint's stomach, what with how matter of factly she had stated she had thought about mass murder before, had planned for it, his little girl with the ribbons in her hair and dribble down her chin, Flint gave a bored huff, hiding his displacement and displeasure. From the slither of her face he could still see, he saw her smirk widening, gracing her face once more. So that was her game, to unsettle him? But why was the real question. Then it came to him, like a lightning bolt down his spine, lighting up his nerves with ferocity. Flint's own grin came back full force as he rose an eyebrow high, asking the question that shattered Clara's.

"And in this... Pretty scenario you've pictured, did it include Eleanor?"

The mask she so diligently wore slipped for a second before she slammed it back on with that queasy grin, but it was long enough for Flint to grasp what the hell his daughter was up to, what she was thinking, what she was feeling. Really, she was much too much like him. The same eyes, the same hair, the same mind. She may have been able to play her little word games with everyone else, but him, she could not. He played the same games too and unfortunately for her, he had been at it a lot longer than she had.

"No, no poison or disease or stray bullets for Miss Guthrie I'm afraid. What? Are you two no longer Partners? Comrades? Friends? How delightfully disheartening. I thought this whole fiasco would force you two closer together not further apart. My sincerest apologies for my part in its downfall."

That must have been the most insincere thing his ears had ever had the blessing to listen to. There we go, the real reason she was here. Not to test his anger, not to do Vane's bidding, not to tease or boast, she was seeing who had whose hooks in who. How far was he in Eleanor's service, how far would he go to please the woman.

"We are what we've been since the beginning, Clara. What are you getting at, this isn't just a visit is it now?"

By the glimmer in her eye, she was definitely not pleased with his answer that was no answer at all. Whatever she was planning or playing at, she needed to backtrack and rethink her choices. Maybe, if she thought he was on Eleanor's side, that would be enough to get her to re-evaluate whatever it was she was dreaming up. He too had once been a dreamer and look where that got him? No, in this regard, his daughter would not follow his footsteps. He wouldn't allow it.

"Nothing... Nothing at all. Just, when the time comes, when she does tumble down the high throne she's built for herself, make sure you haven't tied all your hopes and dreams to her. I would hate to see her take you down too. Do you know what Mary used to tell me? The tallest always fall the hardest."

Her voice was so calm, so serene, he felt like he was in the eye of the storm. Then her words registered despite the tone she had said them in and he jarred in his seat, joints locking, fingers clamping on the edge of his desk. His own mask fell, and filled with disbelief, he eyed her up and down.

"Is that a threat?"

She frowned at him, not angrily, not in confusion, but hurt, actual god-given hurt etched upon her delicate features as the glow in her eyes dimmed and became sorrow filled. He had gotten it wrong, he knew then, it was no threat, she was warning him. Warning him about Vane, Eleanor, the other pirates or herself, he wasn't sure. But still, the slither of muscle he called his heart warmed a touch at this confession.

"No... No of course not. It's a warning. I am not the only one who has noticed your favouritism for her or hers for you. When she's gone... sorry, If, if she goes, you do not want to be on this island with no allies do you? No, I don't think pirates hold much favour for a governor or governess's lapdog. I'm just saying, don't burn all your bridges for one staircase. Bridges lead to all sorts, exotic lands, riches, people who we never thought we would meet, wonders of life. Staircases only go up and do you know what happens then?"

Dread, heavy and heady settled in his gut as his eyes locked onto his own that were in his daughter's skull.

"What?"

She smiled then, true and warm and all the false smiles before it were put to shame. It was a shame really, once you had seen a real smile, you could tell her counterfeits from a mile off.

"What goes up, must always come down. Just... Be careful. I... I worry for you and what's to come."

He tried to smile but he was sure it came out just like a grimace.

"There is no need to worry, not for me. Not for you. Not for Nassau. Change comes hard around here. You'll see."

However, he could feel the winds changing, despite being in an enclosed room. Something was brewing, bubbling, growing, getting ready to leap out and tear its way into the world. Though, with that worried glint in her eyes, he couldn't help but let the bitter lie pass his lips in an attempt to squash it out. Her smile turned woeful at best, more forced than natural and humourless. It seemed she could smell and taste the lie as much as he could.

"I have to go. It's getting late and I have duties. Duties, me, how odd does that sound ring in my ear still. Send my regards to Miranda, and please tell her I'll visit as soon as I can when I can slip away. Stay safe, at least until next time so I can muck up your plans. I seemingly do it so well."

She had fallen back on sarcasm and derision, something Flint was beginning to suspect was her safety net when sailing in uncharted territories, her default setting when things became uncomfortable for her. Another thing they had in common. It was starting to feel like he was staring and talking to a mirror, not another person. A lump formed in his throat.

"I will. Clara I-..."

I miss you. I love you. I hope you stay safe. I wished you could have the life I often pictured for you. I'm sorry I've dragged you into this world. I'm sorry. I'm proud. I'm ashamed. I'll see you again. there were so many things his tongue wanted to say, but the lump in his throat blocked them. Despite all that, a twinkle that took place in her eyes told him she understood perfectly and as she spoke next, his heart broke.

"I know. You too dad... You too..."

Then she was gone, her smell of peaches and camp-fire lingering in the air, his only tether left to a girl who was everything, yet nothing at all. A girl from a different life, a girl who could have had so much, yet had so little. A daughter who was as much as a stranger as one of the last beacons of a time long gone. Gone. Everything was gone and once again Flint was submerged in the abyss that was being singularly alone. For the first time in many years, since Thomas, alone in his office, the bright light filtering through dusty windows, painting part of the floors golden, Flints head fell into his hands and he sobbed, he wept, he begged and prayed.

* * *

 _Silver's P.O.V_

John Silver wandered around Noonan's with a freshly filled tankard of rum clasped in hand, the deep amber liquid sloshing up the sides as he slipped between the crowd's and tables, nodding to the few he knew but mainly keeping his head down for a few moments of peace while he hunted for a seat to ease himself into. It had been a hell of a few weeks. First the fight for the Urca, then actually winning, he was just as surprised of that outcome than the Spanish he was sure, then finally getting the gold back only for half of it to be shipped away in the dead of the night by one Charles Vane, all the while Eleanor Guthrie and Captain Flint were spitting feathers and raging on Nassau. In secret of course, god forbid either let the crew of the Walrus know they had been done over and only had half of the treasure they had already frivolously spent.

Although, Charles Vane was the scapegoat Flint had pinned the blame on, Eleanor too on some part, however, his eyes were more open to possibilities and realities than Flint he feared and he knew the real culprit, the only one to have the insanity and balls enough to smile prettily and nod along with the plan only for at the last possible second, send her middle finger up in the air and tell them to all fuck off as she made her way into the night. The one and only Clara Flint. He half wondered if she would dare come back, what with Guthrie out for blood and Flint becoming more and more irrational each day, but then shook his head. Of course she would, she was brilliantly and utterly lacking self-preservation instincts, and if he knew one thing, Clara would want to rub salt into the wound and laugh as she did so. Normally, he would find high amusement in this, but this time it was also his wound she would be aggravating.

Sighing as he slipped deeper into the brothel, Silver took a deep gulp of his drink, the sun from the open roof making his hair glint like spilled ink. He would be lying if he said he wasn't as angry as Flint or Guthrie over the whole ordeal. How could he not? Back in the belly of the Walrus, surrounded with gold, him and Clara, he thought it was just that, him and Clara and no one else... Then she had run back to bloody Vane of all people and sailed off without so much of a goodbye or backward glance to him.

He knew, of course he did, Clara hardly did anything that didn't hold a purpose, it was the first thing that drew his eye. Every word was measured, every act was done in preparation of a consequence, every breath breathed waiting for the end. But what he couldn't figure out was why she had done this, why she had gone back to Vane when they had the gold, they had some standing now, dammit, they had everything they needed to get the fuck off this island and make an actual life where no one was holding the guillotine rope, readying to drop the large blade on their bared necks.

Well, that was a little bit of a lie. Silver knew Clara wouldn't leave, not now and maybe not ever, that silly little promise was just a comfort, but the core of it wasn't, or hadn't been to him. Him and her. That was the promise and what had happened? Clara had absconded away with Vane of all people. He knew she was placing her gold somewhere else, she had warned him, and Flint in turn, to do the same after all, but he didn't think that little plan had involved Vane and the whole of the Ranger fucking crew.

Silver scoffed at himself. Of course it would involve Vane, maybe he was the blind one here. He had seen with his own eyes, back with that Man-Of-War, how the two looked at each other through smoke and debris, how Vane was the first one she had called out for when they got within distance. Why had he expected anything different? It was plain to see, time and time again, Clara always... Always ran back to Vane after the dust had settled.

He wasn't jealous per say. Not of what they were becoming, he doubted either knew themselves, or upset that they had shared a kiss yet it was Vane she looked too and ran to, Clara was an unconventional girl with even more unconventional standards and expectations. Societies rules and boundaries couldn't hold her, she was too... Large of a person for that, she deserved more than those restrictions. He too lived outside those high walls, Nassau itself was as far away from those walls as you could get but damn it all to hell, she could fucking sleep with the both of them, hate the both, be friends with both, be enemies with both... Love both as long as she clued him in once in a while instead of leaving him in the dark, waiting. Constantly waiting.

It was like watching her clasp Vane's hand and run, him trailing behind to keep up and she would turn every so often to urge him along, confusion written on her face when he couldn't keep up. It was like a twisted morris dance, Vane tugging Clara, Clara tugging him, him tugging Flint, Flint tugging Guthrie. It was only a matter of time before their little chain was broken and one of them fell down dead. Now everyone was drawing sides, little white chalk lines, daring each other to be the first to pull the trigger. Him, Flint and Guthrie on one side, Clara, Vane, Rackham and Bonny on the other, but Clara... Clara didn't and wouldn't play by the rules of the game and kept jumping lines, adamantly standing in the middle. Of course, he had done the same in the beginning, but as time grew on, he became more aware how dangerous that was. Clara knew too for sure, but she was so fucking stubborn, he wouldn't be surprised if she did it just for the hell of it, to show everyone she could.

But just because she could, didn't mean she should.

Nassau was becoming tense, you could feel it thicken in the air and clog in your throat. Everyone's hands were resting on their gun's, waiting patiently for the first shot to ring out the tune of an oncoming war, one wrong move by anyone, Clara included, would set that off. Maybe that was what she wanted, he didn't know anymore. Maybe he never knew to begin with, all he knew was he felt like she was the sun and she was pulling further and further away from him, taking the warmth with her and leaving him to freeze and balance on his own.

Him and her.

What had happened to that promise? Was it him or her who had shattered it? They had back-stabbed each other enough. The truth was the waters were murky and Silver was having trouble differentiating ally from an enemy and god knows Clara didn't make it easy, blurring the image more and more with her own schemes and plans. Did he fit into any of them, at all?

With an upturn snarl of his lips, already more than slightly inebriated from the copious amount of rum he had already partaken in, Silver downed the rest of his tankard, snatched another from a service lady, flipped a gold coin her way and carried on for a cozy corner to drink away his worries in. Privately. Well, that was the plan until some unknown man, tall and blonde haired with meaty fist's wrapped one around his arm, stalling him in his walk and leaning into his ear to whisper over the humming and chatter of the patrons.

"Don't move. Don't make a sound, the little lady wants to speak to you. This way."

Before he could try and talk his way out of it, the man was dragging him to the far bottom rooms, the ones only closed off by thick curtains of various fabrics and scurried away in alcoves. Silver only managed to indignantly huff his refusal as the man swept one curtain away, giving sight to a dark room only lit with a sparse candle here and there, pillows and throws lining the floor, no furniture or chair in sight.

"Can't a man drink in peace?"

Then a voice echoed out from the dingy room just as Silver managed to yank his arm free and was pushed into the enclosed space. A voice that made him freeze and squint into the darkness, his eyes finally adjusting to the lighting enough to catch a glimpse of fiery red.

"You heard the man Louis, get him another drink."

Louis did as he was bid with a simple nod, letting go of the curtain with a swoosh, leaving him and Clara alone. There were so many things he wanted to say, to do, that it morphed into just feeling, unable to land on one reaction. Still, as Clara sat with her back pushed up and leaning on the corner wall, one knee propped up with an arm draped over the appendage, large eyes blinking up at him, Silver was the one to speak.

"I didn't think I would see you around here anytime soon. Don't you have gold to be counting?"

He finished his sharp retort with a swig of his drink and it didn't miss Clara, not by the way her eyes turned to slits at him, that he refused to sit down. Well, good. Let her be uncomfortable and confused Silver thought. For once, let it be her in that spot and not him. For once, let it be her trying to keep him close and have life and his loyalties, though he had very few, get in between them. For once, let her stand there and offer promises and comforts, only for him to turn away and run for her father... Or Guthrie. He bet that one would sink the knife in her gut. Staring down at his drink idly swirling the rum around, Silver wondered when he had become so petty, so vindictive, or if it was Clara that brought it out of him. Of course he wasn't disappointed by Clara's own abrasive remark and her quick timing.

"Well, that's why we're here. Unless, of course, you want to be counting your own gold? Oh wait, we have half of it. Pretty hard to count riches when a large fucking chunk is missing."

Silver chuckled, slinking to a wall to kick back and relax just a smidgeon, still not willing to sit down and almost smirking when Clara stood up to meet him head on. Really, it wasn't her fault. He was sure he would make the same choices she had in her shoes, but that didn't make him any less bitter to the situation. She was right here, at his finger tips, yet she had never been so far away, looking so different from the girl aboard Captain Ludford's ship. Maybe he should have ran with her when she had darted the first chance when her feet hit the sand. Maybe he shouldn't have let her stay and face down Vane when Max was being threatened. Maybe things would be different if he had have been there. But he hadn't, and now he felt like she was getting further and further away from his outstretched hand.

Maybe's and should have's never did fix anything, actions did. So, with a square of his shoulders and a ground of teeth, Silver decided to test where Clara really stood. He needed to know, he wanted to know if that promise back then really meant anything, if it meant anything still.

"Very hilarious Clara. Unfortunately, I am not in a humorous mood."

Clara frowned at him, a twitch in her bottom jaw giving away her own frustrations despite her easy stance. In a different life, they wouldn't have to meet in secret, they wouldn't have to scheme and plan and... Be so far apart. Vane, Flint, Guthrie, Nassau, life, a tidal wave of chaos that swept them apart, two currents pulling them in different directions. He knew he was fighting against his current, swimming as fast as he could to stay afloat, to get back, but was Clara?

"Why are you so angry? Gold will only get us so far, I've gotten us something much more useful. Allies John. What use is gold if we don't have the power to back that claim up? I mean, that's why we are doing all this isn't it? So we don't have to be on the bottom any longer?"

There was the hook and the bait, now was the time to sling his own hook, wait for her answer, see if there was anything left to say or do but part ways with a throaty goodbye.

"Our allies? Or your's and Vane's?"

Clara stalled, seemingly made out of painted marble as she stood there and stared at him for what felt like a life time, but really, only two beats of his heart passed, ringing like a large drum in his ear. Though, they were interrupted by the curtain being pulled back, Louis coming to a stop just inside the entrance, a large satchel, so full and heavy it was tearing slightly at the seams, being dropped to the floor in front of him, between him and Clara, despite the blankets and pillows, the bag still thudded loudly upon impact.

"So, where's my drink then?"

Louis, the big bruiser, only sent him a quick glance before he zeroed back in on Clara. It only further pointed out to Silver how far things had changed. People were looking towards Clara as if they were awaiting her orders, as if they were not willing to upset the small woman when back when they had first arrived, everyone, Vane included, acted as if she was nothing but a street urchin pickpocketing them. He felt the imaginary current pull him further down as he remembered how things used to be to what he was irrevocably faced with now.

"Louis, Vane should be heading towards camp soon, you should head back. Don't forget to do what I asked earlier. There's your fucking drink John."

Louis smiled at Clara and was once again gone without uttering a single word before Clara turned to face him. Only when they were surely alone, the velvet curtain still once more did she snarl the last part of her sentence, finally kicking away from the wall to storm towards the bag that was near the middle of the room, bending down to flip open the leather flap. Now it was Silver's to imitate granite as the small amount of light from the two candles glinted and shone off the pile of gold in the bag. His eyes slowly drifted up to meet Clara's straight on, sea clashing with sky as he muttered his question smoothly, mind working a mile a minute, the chaos outside finally fading to nothing as all he could focus on was her, the confusing, brilliant, crazy woman in front of him.

"What is this?"

He had come for an answer, had tried to prod it out of her, him or Vane, whose side was she on. Though he had a feeling he was about to get that answer, finally, he wasn't sure he was really ready for it. Not ready for what it would change, them, him, her, us. What would it bring? Did it really matter what it brought if it gave him more time at her side, away from the hurricane that was always raging above their heads, ready to drop and rain hell down upon them? Yes and no. He needed to know, but he wasn't sure he wanted to anymore. Change never really came easy to Silver, no, he liked to bring the change, not be the one that it was thrust upon. But Clara... Clara didn't play by the rules. Heads were tails with her, up was down, left was right. She was disorientating at the least. He bit his tongue when she began to walk forward, stopping only a foot away, a breath away and began to speak, the feeling of copper and warmth slipping down his throat as he respectively swallowed.

"My share of the Urca prize. You once made me a promise John. A promise of a sunny beach, this is my... Return. I couldn't say goodbye last time when I left for Vane's ship after the Man-Of-War. After you saved my life. This is me saying I won't say goodbye. Not now, not ever, not to you. I may disappear, I may wander, but I will always... Always come back. Look after my share for me will you? Times are going to get tough, things are going to happen, things I don't want to do but will if pushed and I don't know if I'm going to come out of it breathing in full honesty. If you take it, then I know I'll have somewhere to go if things go down hill. That I'll have someone to go to. It's no beach, or five hundred passo's, no happy ending, but it's all I have, all I will likely ever have... And I want you to have it."

 _I want you to be that person._ That part was left unsaid, but it didn't need to be brought to words to be heard loud and clear. He was her safe harbour in the storm, just like she was his tempestuous battle ship in the middle of war. This wasn't an offer of gold, not a request of looking after a hard earned prize, this was a plead that he be there for her, that he wouldn't turn his back and walk away. This was her own unique way of saying no matter where she went, who she went with, what she did, she would always find her way back to him in the end. She was admitting she couldn't fight against her current, she wasn't strong enough, but no matter what, even from the bottom of the ocean, she would find him. If only he stopped trying to swim against his own current.

All she had to do was ask and he would sink like a cannonball.

"I don't care if you disappear, what you're planning, who you have to burn to get there or who you run with while you're gone. Be it Vane, or Rackham, or Billy or anybody else... But no goodbyes. Ever. You hear me? None. You give me this, I will look after it, I will wait for you, but you will come back. Always. No exception."

Finally, he reached out and touched her, hand trembling slightly as if she were a phantom and would disperse upon contact. But no, she was real, she was there, soft and warm under his palm as his hand touched the side of her neck, thumb rubbing back and forth across her lower jaw. Warm, real and alive. Not dead, not in delirium, not sweaty and too hot to the touch. And then he was graced with one of those smiles, those rare rays of sunbeams that were real. So often she faked it, played the games she played, false, all of it, but when she well and truly smiled, it was like seeing the first star in an endless night. His thumb traced a dimple as she grinned up at him, words airy and light, despite their heavy meaning.

"Haven't I shown you that enough John? No matter where my feet take me, god knows why or how, but they always drag me back to you. Always."

His forehead pressed against hers, laying there against hers as his eyes shut on their own accord, leaving him to feel as her hand joined his, over, warmth seeping into his skin, into his muscle, into his bones, into his marrow. His answer drifted on an exhalation of breath, fogging between them, clinging to their lips, imprinting and searing there.

"That's all I ask."

He didn't know if Clara's eyes were shut like his, but he felt like they were when she gave a shaky chuckle. They could do this, him and her, stay on opposing sides of Nassau's chess board, but side by side all the same. They could pull it off. They had to. He didn't know what he would do if it all fell apart under his feet.

"It's all I have to give."

He felt like he was on the precipice of a cliff, rocks and waves crashing deep below him, one foot off, other edging towards the ledge. This was it, this was the deciding factor, the yes or no, the in or out. So many people stood in their way, so many things could go wrong. Flint would skin him if he ever found out and who the fuck knew what Vane would do but in that small moment, Clara in his arms, he didn't care. This was the dive into the unknown. He didn't know if he would resurface, didn't know if he would not hit the rocks below, didn't know if the ocean wouldn't swallow him whole, but all the same, with a tense of his hand and his lips brushing against Clara's as he spoke four little words, he jumped off the cliff.

"It's all I want."

Then they crashed together, like the sky and sea to create an Aurora Borealis horizon on the back of closed eyelids. It wasn't as soft or tame or building as the last time, no, it was like someone had lit the fuse and the gunpowder keg had exploded as soon as lips touched lips. At first, Silver thought She had pushed him away when she braced her hands across his chest and shoved him into the wall, only to groan and reach for her again as she tore off his jacket, his shirt buttons tinkling to the floor as his shirt followed suit.

Yanking her towards him, he leaned down and grasped her upper thighs, picking her up and twirling to pin her against the wall she had shoved him into, her legs wrapping around his waist as she tugged and twisted his ruined shirt off. He squeezed her thigh and sighed as he felt her hands run across bare back, his mouth moving towards her neck to bite and suckle. As his own hands came up to tear and rip through her waist coat, huskily groaning as her legs tightened and brought him closer, closer to the fire, closer to hells gate, closer to that heat he wanted to burn in, his legs gave out and the two went tumbling to the floor.

It didn't halt anything, only added to the inferno as they battled against one another again, Clara on top this time as he finally gave up on having the patience to unbutton her waist coat, choosing instead to grab ahold of the two sides with white knuckles and heavy breath and tear it open, flinging it away from them as Clara shoved him down by his shoulders, his head landing on silken pillow as she lunged down to his own bared neck, his head leaning upwards to give her more space. His teeth ground together as he hissed and grasped at her with bruising fingers, one hand on her hip and the other on the back of her bent knee as she grazed her teeth and sucked harshly on his Adam's apple.

His hand found it's way back into her mane of curls and plaits, pulling until her head was away from his throat, diving back in for her mouth like he was dying of thirst and she was the oasis. His hands skirted back to the bottom of her shirt, wringing the material, waiting, and when no negative came, thank god, swept the shirt up and off from her lithe form, throwing it in the same general direction her waist coat went. Silver froze, eyes lock on to her bared and naked waist, breath laboured and hot.

Only when she began to pull away, sitting up and readying to stand did he come back to himself. Reaching for her, clasping the back of her neck as he simultaneously sat up too, chest meshing to chest, heat building and blazing skin rubbing, he brokenly worbled one word in between kisses, rolling the two of them until she was pressed between him and blankets, propped up on his elbows, lips to lips, skin to skin, hand to hand, hip cradled to hip, soul bared to soul.

"Please... Please..."

Please don't leave. Please stay. Please stop. Please take me with you. Please leave. Please... Always. He didn't know, he could barely think, especially when his own pelvis dipped and ground, eliciting a hearty groan from Clara, her own hips bucking up into his. It was like they were dancing, sparks and flames licking at their skin when it brushed, his and her heart beat the drum that set the tempo, their sighs and groans the opera, the rustle of pillows and blankets the orchestra. He pulled away from the kiss when it grew too much, when all he could do to get rid of that terrible ache in his core was messily pull at the laces of his own breeches, pulling them down his hips and thighs, too impatient to tug them fully off, his hips still grinding against Clara's own girating owns, adding fuel to the fire. His fingers were stiff and shaking as he fiddled with hers, nearly huffing in relief when they came free and his finger tips dipped into the waistband to pull them down. It wasn't enough, he wanted more, he needed more. He wanted everything and only this. Always this. It was too much yet too little.

Then the swoosh of a curtain rang out and bright light swept in, prickling at his pupils, blinding him from the paradise that was laid bare before him.

"Clara, Vane wants you at Guthrie's now. Something about-... Holy shit."

The fire was well and truly put out with ice water as Jack fucking Rackham's voice rang out. Then the scrambling started. Silver tugged at his trousers, wincing in pain as the laces restricted and caught a place no man ever wanted restricted or caught, the moment gone but the fire still raging through his blood, angering him beyond belief. Clara rolled away, struggling to pull her shirt back on and when Silver caught Rackham staring with wide eyes, his voice was too low and husky from denied pleasure to be anything but a snarl and bark at the pirate.

"Close the fucking curtain!"

At another time, if he weren't so tense, annoyed and aching in all the wrong places in the presence of another male, he would have never spoken to Rackham in such away, but alas he was and Rackham seemed of mind enough to realise what he had stumbled across and how much he was welcomed. Which, by the frown thrown at him from over Clara's shoulder and Silver's own contemptuous look and bite, was not at all. He pulled back and let the curtain fall back into place, although his voice did pierce their little bubble once more and Silver truly knew then the moment was well and dead.

"I'll... Just wait for you out here... Vane does need you at Guthrie's though, so your... Little rendezvous will have to wait."

Giving up on patting around for his shirt or jacket, Silver sagged against the wall, still sitting and ran a hand down his face, his palm tugging at his stubble. By the time he focused back in on the room and not how much shit he was in now that Rackham of all people had caught him with Clara, he noticed Clara was re-dressed, sans waistcoat and was heading towards the curtains.

Coming to a stand, before Clara could leave, he snook up behind her and swept away her hair from the back of her neck, pulling her towards him and planting a kiss there, whispering to the skin.

"I'll see you soon."

No goodbyes. Goodbyes were permanent, and hadn't he just promised there would be no goodbyes in their distant or near future? No, after that, after feeling that fire, he wouldn't willingly part from her. Damn Rackham, Vane, Guthrie, Flint or anybody else who would try anything. Clara's head partially turned towards him, easy but strangely sorrow filled smile on her face, reaching up to rub at the hand he hand placed on her chest, holding her hair back.

"I'll see you. Promise."

He didn't miss the way she hadn't said soon. Though, there was nothing he could do as she pulled away and slipped through the curtain, taking the fire, light, warmth and sparks with her. She would be back, he was sure now, and he would be waiting. Always. In the mean time, she would do what she had to and he would too. He had Flint to worry about, the Walrus crew and gathering his own standing on the ship. He had his own schemes and plans to orchestrate, his own games to play. Until next time, they would carry on. Because there would be a next time. There had to be. That tightening in his chest demanded it, and wearily, he suspected what that tightening was, what made his heart skip a beat, what made him so desperately want another time...

He was fucked. And not in the way he or his body wanted to be right now.

* * *

 _Clara's P.O.V_

"Does Vane know?"

So now Rackham chose to speak, after half the journey to Guthrie's having passed in complete silence between the two. Really, Clara preferred it that way, especially when she thought of the state he had found her in, and who with, sent her cheeks sizzling red. The first time is a mistake, anything other is purposely done, Clara thought. Although, she still had no fucking idea how she and Silver ended up or kept ending up in... That predicament in the first place. Even with Rackham by her side, arm nearly brushing hers, she kept her eyes straight ahead resolutely, focused on the twinkling and clinking of her weapons, the sound of dry sand scuffing under her boots as she marched forth, step by step with Rackham.

"Have I told him? No. I think he suspects, though."

And she did think Vane knew something of what ever was going down between her and Silver, maybe even more than she herself knew. He questioned her about Silver too much, brought him up too much for anything but having a suspicion. Clara could practically feel the irritation roll of Rackham in waves and seep into her, though she gave no outward sign of it.

"Aren't you going to ask me to keep it quiet? Charles won't like you... Meeting with a pirate from a rival crew, especially if that crew member belongs to Flint."

Didn't they have more pressing matters to focus their minds on then who she was meeting or talking to? Who she may or may not have nearly slept with? Jesus fucking Christ. She had nearly slept with Silver. What the hell had gotten into her head? It didn't matter, while they didn't have more pressing matters to ponder over, she did and she would think about whatever that had just happened when she had time. Later, when she was alone. Coming to a stop, Clara faced Rackham, who intern stopped to face her, thumbs hooked in his belt, one eyebrow raised high as he waited for what he assumed would be her asking just that. He was in for a surprise then, for she wouldn't ask for a single thing.

"Tell him, don't tell him. No matter what I say, it won't change anything. You either will or you won't. Now didn't you say Vane wanted me urgently, so shouldn't we get there, say, urgently?"

Rackham eyed her up and down for a few seconds before he gave a sharp nod and their short walk carried on. All too soon they were at the door of Guthrie's, a place Clara would want to be anywhere but, and strolling through the crowds, up the stairs to the higher levels, where they found Vane nursing a tankard alone at a table. Unfortunately, she may not have bumped into Eleanor but Vane did peruse her hazardous state with a frown and a gruff voice.

"Where have you been? Why the hell do you look like you've been rolling around in a hay basket?"

Clara only sent a glance towards Rackham, eyes locking onto one another before she tore them away and walked to the table Vane was sat on, flopping into a seat but mouth determinedly shut. The ball was in Rackham's court, he would do what he would do and she would try and figure it out once it had happened. Nothing more could be done. She didn't want to do nothing more. She wouldn't ask Rackham to lie, not to Vane, you could be blind and she was sure you would be able to see the deep friendship between the two. She wouldn't get between that.

"She was at Noonan's... Drinking and rough housing with the men. You know what she's like."

The only change in her body language, the only tell-tale sign of her surprise was tension to her shoulders. However, Vane seemed to brush it off, downing the rest of his drink before standing, eyes flickering between her and Rackham as he prowled towards the stairs they had just ascended.

"Well, meet me down stairs, I've been offered a deal by Eleanor and we need to get going if we're going to go through with it. She can't publicly do anything for what we did, it would give away that she and Flint do not have the entirety of the gold and apparently, neither have told the walrus crew or the populace. But, we still need to tread carefully, so no more... Rough housing Clara."

By the wince of Rackham's eyes, she hadn't imagined the emphasis that Vane had put on rough housing, which meant he either already knew, unlikely, or he knew something other than what he had been told had happened. Either way, Rackham had been caught out in the lie. The two only moved, Rackham to sit down and Clara turning to face Rackham when Vane's boots thudding came to a stop, fading into the background noise of Guthrie's.

"Why did you do that?"

Rackham reached over and plucked up Vane's discarded tankard, sighing when he found it empty, though he never turned to face her when he spoke, choosing instead to stare blankly at a window a few feet away from them. It made her infinitely uncomfortable, especially when his tone was so bland, so monotone, so lacking his normally jovial nature.

"Vane, as much of a dear friend he is, can be hypercritical. He will see your, dalliance shall we call it, a betrayal of his ship and him, when his own dalliance with miss Guthrie is twice, if not more, as harmful as yours. We have problems piling up around us Clara, why add one more when there is no problem? For there isn't is there? No passing of secrets? No gossip you tell him that shouldn't be told?"

Clara scoffed and pushed her away up from the table, the legs of her chair squalling in their mistreatment. She was more than a little offended he would think such, question such, when she had shown repeatedly she would not do anything like it, hadn't done anything like it when she had so many opportunities to. Surely he should know her better by now, especially after all they had been through together, especially when she had so thoughtlessly thrown herself in front of a cannon ball for him. It hurt, she would admit. Hurt more than it should coming from a simple ally, which is what she kept telling herself was all he, Vane, Bonny and even Silver were. God. What the hell had she gotten herself into?

"Fuck off Rackham. You know I wouldn't."

Seemingly, by the bright smile he sent her way, he wasn't questioning her, simply looking for an affirmative. He too stood, towering over her with his lanky form as he grinned down at her, bopping her on the nose with his index finger at the end of his sentence. It was unsettling how ironically settling it was to see him back to his normal self. She was in too deep. Too deep to do what she needed to do. What she must do. How could she pull off her plan when these damned people around her kept worming their way in, when the word ally was transforming to friend... Or whatever it was transforming to when it came to Silver... And Vane. No. Allies, that's all they were and ever would be. They had to be just that if she was going to succeed and not end up hurt or dead. Or they end up hurt and dead.

 _Feelings, they were more trouble then they were worth._

"Good. See? All sunshine and roses then. Plus, with my help getting you to become the first mate, that evened out you saving my life. Now you owe me one."

There, back to territory she knew, could navigate, felt comfortable in. A deal. A self-serving deal at that. Rackham wasn't looking out for her, he was simply after something. This she could deal with, this she could live with, this made the lump in her throat shrivel and die. Nothing had changed. Nothing at all. She just had to keep telling herself that. So, when he began walking towards the stairs, with her own grin on her face, she followed and shouted after him.

"What do you want Rackham?"

He had only descended three stairs when he flamboyantly flung his arms out and twirled on his heal to face her, grin meeting grin, twinkle meeting twinkle. Clara was stuck between wanting to push him down the stairs, to take his ego down a few notches, and wrapping her arms around him, hugging the breath out of his lungs. She was kidding herself, bare-faced lying to herself when she kept mentally repeating nothing had changed, not since the day she had sailed into harbour, nothing more than a girl with no home or family. Things had changed, drastically and without return. She... Cared. She really did, she cared for Rackham, she cared for Bonny, she cared for Silver and Vane and Flint and suddenly, coming to this realization, she could have sworn she felt iron chains wrap around her and squeeze. She felt trapped, cornered, bleeding and alone while a predator lurked in the shadows, sniffing her out.

If she wanted to survive, if she wanted to exact her plan and actually have it succeed, she couldn't have weaknesses people could exploit and caring for others, others who Clara wasn't sure wouldn't sell her out or lodge a dagger between her shoulder blades if it served them better, was one of the biggest weaknesses she could ever possible acquire. She was totally and utterly stuck. What if the time came when she would need to turn her back on one of them, when the only way to reach her goal was to be the one thrusting the dagger, could she do it? No. She would, she would have to and silly emotional attachments wouldn't hold her back. she wouldn't allow it to. She was a sinner, a pirate, a killer and a schemer, it was time to come to terms with the fact the old she was dead and gone, proverbially rotting in the ground with her innocence.

"Lot's of things Clara dear. But first and foremost, have you ever heard of Chardonnay?"

Clara shook her head as she chuckled, shouting once again at his back as he span back around and carried down the stairs, scurrying after him when he didn't slow down.

"What the fuck is Chardonnay, Rackham? Rackham!"

Even as Clara began to reach the bottom of the stairs, the hairs on her arm and back of her neck stood on end, fuzzy and alert. Something... Something just didn't feel right. Something was missing. Something was wrong, but even as she frowned, as she heard Rackham chuckle and speak, she couldn't put her finger on it.

"Oh you poor, poor uncouth girl. I have so much to teach you and so little time..."

Then it hit her, she had heard Rackham chuckle... But nothing else. No chatter, no music, no rowdy crowds of drunken men and women. Nothing. It seemed she came to the same gut-churning worry at the same time as Rackham as she saw him tense and his head dart up, eyes searching for something among the crowd. Thankfully, that something made itself known as it shouted for them. Vane.

"Rackham, Clara! Get down here now!"

Clara pushed passed Rackham, her smaller form working in her favour once again as she dipped and swerved through the crowd, the same crowd that held Rackham up and blocked others from moving. An arena was forming it seemed, a condensed formation of a half circle and Vane just happened to be in the cluster of it. Using her elbow's and knee's, she finally managed to get to Vane and see into the open space the people were circling, out of breath and flushed in the face.

Blood. Blood everywhere. A table, turned over in a fight it seemed was coated in it, a puddle seeping into the wood around the fallen furniture and a body, awkwardly bent and broken on the floor, crumpled by it... A headless body. In her foggy mind, her thoughts trying to catch up to what her eyes were seeing, she distantly heard a man's laughter, mad and echoing accompanied by the cling and clash of swords. Her feet began to move, to push her forward so she could see what was happening better but a hand clamped on her shoulder, yanking her back a few steps with considerable force, Vane's deep husk huffing in her ear.

"Don't!"

Clara snarled and twisted her shoulder free from Vane's hand, glancing at him in annoyance from over her shoulder and through some stray locks that had broken free from the plaits and bandanna's hold in her struggle to get to him. What? Did he think she was going to burst into the fight? She only wanted to see what the hell was going on. However, she didn't need to wait long as their staring contest was broken when people in front of them squealed and a few dived out of the way, a half-dressed woman with puffy hair even ducking under a table.

That's when she saw it, A man's back, short black jacket, light golden brown locks brushing his shoulders, dressed in black head to foot, the blood covering his raised sword, seconds from swooping down and slicing through the cowering form bent and prone at his feet. A form she knew, a form she had conversed with, a form that was one of her own people. She swore loudly, her own sword being drawn and was darting forward before Vane could re-grab her.

"Shit. Gareth! Oi motherfucker!"

The clash of her sword parrying the man's one inches from Gareth's chest rang loud and clear and for a few peaceful seconds all was still and quiet in the world, the only sound was her own heart ringing in her ears. Then the man turned and his sword followed.

The blows were vicious, crude, and coming one after the other as Clara was pushed back, forced to only block lest she is skewed by the raging man that was charging at her like a snarling wolf. Then, as if Bonny was right by her ear, whispering, she heard her voice in her skull, bouncing and echoing.

Pay attention to their stance, their feet, it gives them away...

And when her eyes settled on the man's boots, she spied his tick and after one final block, lashed out. Kicking at his ankle, his weaker one that he kept turning, he stumbled and just like that, it was Clara's turn to be on the offensive, the man scrambling back and rushing to block her own. She didn't know how long it carried on, but soon he had gone crashing onto another table, the legs nearly giving out from the added weight suddenly bashed upon it. just as she raised her sword, readying to bring down and stab him through his chest, something came sailing towards her, a bronze plate as it hit her around the face, making her stumble to the side as the world blurred and span around her, something warm and sticky trickling down her forehead and cheek, her sword falling from her hand and clambering to the floor.

Ah, a dirty fighter then. She could almost laugh, Fancy had been a dirty fighter too, not thinking twice about throwing dirt in your eyes if you got the upper hand in their play fighting. She knew how to deal with dirty fighters, she had learned from the best after all, and as her shoulder hit a beam in her stumbling, just as she felt the man slide in behind her, sword zooming towards her neck, she ducked last second and threw her elbow back, triumphantly listening to the gust of air leave the man as he faltered backwards, her elbow having cracked a rib or two.

Spinning around, she swooped her leg out and swept up his two, watching as the man fell to the floor on his back. He didn't stay down long, however, as he gamboled backward and was back on his feet before Clara could reach her sword. However, just as his sword nipped at the skin of her neck, her Flint lock's hammer clicked into place as the barrel of her gun pressed against his forehead and for the first time, strangely enough, the two made eye contact and both froze, both seconds away from killing each other.

She knew those eyes, she knew that scar, she had run her fingers down it curiously as a child, she knew that pale sightless eye, knew how the man got it, had been there when he had lost sight in one eye. She knew that nose, she knew those frowning brows and snarling lips, despite the age that had weathered their corners, she still knew them deep in her soul. Her heart picked up pace, her hand shook so terribly she nearly pressed the trigger and killed the man... The man that was supposed to be long dead and buried already, like his brother, the man that was a ghost come to human form to torment her, the man she thought she would never see again. Her gun lowered a fraction, just as the sword pulled away from her neck and her voice croaked and broke the stagnant air between them.

"Fancy? Ned, is that really you?"

With one word, she was rushed with everything. All she had lost, all she had gained, all that had been, all the games and sunshine and frivolity. She was hit with that little girl she used to be, skinned-kneed and rampant and wholly innocent to the horrors of the waking world. Once again, she was the little girl after a mermaids pearls or a dragon's eggs, but instead of finding a rotting mango, she had actually found the magical and mythical.

"Fox?"

Then something glittered behind his head, something sharp and pointed and glinting. Her gun raised once more, the muscles tense but not shaking and finally, she fired.

* * *

 **Next chapter:** Clara finds out Eleanor's deal with Vane and is not happy, causing a rift to form between the two. Clara visit's Miranda in hopes of finding some calm but ends up feeling like the walls are closing in around her. Vane, Rackham and the Ranger crew begin to doubt Clara's loyalty and in a startling offer, gets her own deal offered that would change everything, destroy the last parts of the old her but at the same time, help her towards her goal she's so determinedly running towards. Forcing her to choose between the past and the future, her life now or the life she had, all that's determined is by the end of it, by her own hand, someone is going to die...

 **A.N:** I know, it's been so long since I've updated this story, I'm sure there are spider webs and dust between chapters. But, I did say I would never give up, no matter how long it takes me to get through it. So, to make up for it here is a whopping 20,000-word chapter, that's right, if you read to the end, congratulations! lol, I don't really have many excuses about why this is so late apart from one word, life.

However, this chapter was tricky as hell to get through, the toughest yet. Some parts, even now, I hate but they lead to parts I like so I had to keep them in because, for the life of me, I couldn't figure a way around it. So, if you're not entirely happy with this chapter, do not worry, you are not alone and hopefully, next chapter will be better.

Another reason this has come out so late is because I got a rather peculiar P.M. I'm not sure whether it was complimentary, demanding, or downright scathing. As I said, it was very odd, as they were practically demanding for me to tell them why I have so many reviews and their own story doesn't when they know they have good writing... I don't know, for some reason it made me a bit ashamed of my own writing because some parts I know I can do better in and how upset this person seemed that mine got reviews and theirs did but didn't have as many as mine. But then, I just thought no. I'm actually proud of this story, I'm so happy people leave reviews and how people like it, why should I feel bad about that? I didn't answer the P.M because, well, I really didn't know what to say XD As I said, a very odd experience indeed.

Well, I hoped you enjoyed this chapter, despite the long wait, you all have the patience of saints, let me tell you that! And please, leave a review, they get my fingers typing! -GoWithTheFlo20

 **CHAPTER NOTES AND QUESTION'S ANSWERED:**

VIKINGS FIC:

For those who do not follow me as an author but are looking forward to this fic, let me bring the good news, the first chapter is out and printed and waiting on my homepage! If you feel like it, pop over and have a quick read. The first chapter is short, but I'm sure, if I carry it on, like this it will grow. I hope you enjoy it.

RACKHAM/OC WHERE IS IT?

The first chapter is very nearly done, just a bit more to right and then to re-read and tweak. The good news is it should be out within the weak, likely Wednesday. So, if you're looking forward to it, its heading this way soon, very soon and I really hope you enjoy it as I've worked hard on it and unlike the first chapter of my vikings fic, the chapter is pretty hefty.

CLARA FEELS A BIT UNBALANCED IN SOME PLACES... AND WHY DOES SHE ALWAYS FIGHT WITH VANE?

Now, I know Clara can go to extremes, but it's the way I've written her. In this place she's found herself in, especially after 'dying', she feels scared and paranoid. She's realized just how far she's willing to for these people, even Rackham, and it scares the hell out of her. She literally died and at the time of jumping in front of Rackham, didn't think much of it. To her, it was on instinct and to someone who is so... Meticulous and plan filled as Clara, that would scare the hell out of her, she feels like she's not in control. The way Clara is (at the moment, she will change) she's fighting herself, deeply. One part of her refuses to see that anything has changed, that she cares for anyone at all, and the other part realizes everything has and she needs to adapt to it or die.

So, what happens when this inner battle is raging? She pushes people away when she thinks they are getting to close. It could be in the middle of a conversation, when she thinks they know too much about her. How does this involve Vane?

Well, it goes back to Clara's annoying habit of confusing her emotions. She's human after all, or at least I'm trying to portray her as such, and as a human, she has her own faults. The biggest of hers is her fear of her own emotions, loosing control and inability to say what is what. Think about it, she was raised poor, as a bastard surrounded by people who would have scorned her for something not of her choice. From an early age she would have had to block the hurt and emotions out. To guard herself from it and having been treated badly for something out of her control, control would be something instrumentally important to her. When something is not in her control, from her early life, she has linked that to bad treatment and derision. How does Vane fit into that? Simple.

Everything, absolutely everything that Vane has brought out in her, what he is, how he makes her feel and how she see's him is completely and utterly uncontrollable. So, when he does bring these emotions out, such as attraction or loyalty, she links back to what she has already experienced because she has no control over it, and therefore, because of that, thinks it is bad. That's why she argues with Vane. Vane pushes her, he prods her, he brings these feelings out and Clara can't control it, so she tries to push him away.

HOWEVER, having said that, Clara has started on the road to realising there are things she can't control, like this chapter and her reaction with Rackham, and she's becoming ok with that. It's part of her character development. And as she travels down this road, she'll start seeing what her emotions really are and how she really feels towards Vane. How she comes to this realisation and her reaction to it is all a big surprise though ;) *COUGH* chapter twenty two *COUGH*

NOT RUSHING THINGS.

Though, some readers may be worried about what my hints were, do not fear, it won't be rushed. Having said that though, this story is at 160,000 words, 180,000 now, and Clara is only just getting on her feet and realising she does care for people, there's only so much slowness I can make without it being laggy and stalling. So, I will take it easy, but things do start to happen, especially in the relationship department. (For both Vane and Silver) Hopefully, it's as realistic as I can make it and you enjoy it all the same. (Filler chapter's just aren't my thing)

VANE OR SILVER? SURELY SHE HAS TO CARE FOR ONE MORE THAN THE OTHER?

For those who are asking this, all I can say is no. No, she doesn't have to love one more than the other. To me anyway, and the way I've written Clara, love is precious and can take many forms. She loves (Or will love) both Vane and Silver differently. The easiest way I can explain this is this:

Vane is the fire, that uncontrollable want and everything extreme. His the good and the bad wrapped into one. His everything Clara wants, but shouldn't want. It's all fire and brimstone with those two. All or nothing. A sort of Bonny and Clyde of the sea. With Vane, its hard and biting and extreme, a battle, and a person Like Clara thrives in fighting and wars. It attracts her. They share the same thirst and soul.

Silver however, is her peace. Her safe place, her garden of Eden, _her safe harbour_. The person she doesn't have to think with, the one she doesn't have to measure everything with, the one she doesn't have to watch her back with. With Silver, it's easy like breathing, she can just be and not have the weight of the world bare down upon her.

Clara is very reminiscent of a soldier, she thirsts for battle, but at the same time, she needs time to recuperate and heal before heading back out to war. Vane is the battle, Silver the healing balm. So, that's how I view them, but once again, really, its up to you readers how you want to see it. This is a story for you to enjoy after all.

Two very, very, very different people who bring very different emotions with them and very different wants. She (Eventually) Loves them for different reason's and therefore, wouldn't or doesn't see why she would have to choose.

 **I hope that answers all questions, if you still have one, or I missed one, drop it in a review or P.M and I'll make sure to answer it in the next chapter.**

Thank you all so much for taking the time to read, I really can't thank you all enough. You are all brilliant and hopefully, next chapter should be out next week (Thursday or Sunday)


	21. Gunpowder & Fuses

Ned's head snapped to the side, locks of hair whipping around his face, obscuring it from view followed by an ominous thud that rattled the old floorboards beneath their feet. The man behind him, who had previously been creeping upon his presence with a raised, glinting dagger was nothing but a tangled mess of limbs, floppy head and a puddle of blood now. A lone, gaping bullet hole proudly displayed in the crease between his brows, face forever frozen in that pinched expression.

Clara's gun lowered with the exhalation of her breath, face passive, clean, undisturbed, contrasting horrendously with the crumpled mess she had made a foot behind Ned Lowe. Ned's face turned steadily, one bright eye followed by its washed out partner crossed out by a raised, bubbled scare, gaze locked onto Clara's own fixed one. Clara almost wanted to smile... Almost.

They would always play games when they were children, harmless dares that showed who was better, little conquest and competitions that all children played. One such game involved pinching and flinching. If you flinched, you lost. Simple. Unfortunately, Clara had always lost that game. Fancy always knew where to hit or pinch, always knew your weakest points to attack were. However, Fancy was the boy she used to know soul deeply, this? This was a strange man standing in front of her, wearing the hints of a grown up Fancy fraying at the corners of his features.

So, here she had won it, the first time she had ever seen Ned flinch and it was here, in Nassau, after years of thinking of him as decaying flesh and flaking bone in the compressed dirt. The satisfaction felt acidic on her tongue, burning her throat harsher than any bile could. Years. Years of thinking Ned was dead and here he was, in front of her, alive, breathing, flushed and flinching. It only took two steps, one drawn back fist and a well-aimed punch to expel the unexpected anger that sizzled in her blood upon this revelation.

"Fucking hell!"

Ned exclaimed as stumbled back a step or two, cradling his nose, a little stream of blood leaking out of his interlocked fingers. Years! He had been dead for years, or playing at it, and now... Now he turns up? He dares call her fox as if she had only seen him yesterday? Years of thinking, guilt gnawing at her core, believing somehow, some way it was all her fault, his death was her fault and he had never been dead to begin with? To her, right now, lost somewhere between golden hazed past and terrifying present, the how didn't matter. The _why_ did. Her hands shook, clenching and unclenching in pulsing anger as she snarled at him.

"Would you look at that, ghosts do bleed after all. Call the bloody priests. Sound the church bells. Send riders out to inform the fucking pope!"

With a wet flick of his hand, Ned wiped the blood away, a few splatters, drops really, falling to the floor like ink drops on parchment. It only made her more livid. The pain she had felt, the loss and torment of his 'passing', and all he got was a bloody nose? No.

"Fox-"

Clara stormed over, snatching up the front lapels of his jacket, breath steaming and hot, billowing across his stubbled cheeks as she huffed and puffed in his face, fighting down the urge to swing and keep on swinging. Ned, for all his violence and own rising temper she could see simmering under his skin, held still, something she was sure she couldn't do in his place.

"No! Don't you fucking dare call me that! Dead, Ned. You were dead! You're supposed to be dead. I thought you were dead... You let me think that! And all the while, you were fucking sailing off around the world. Fuck you!"

Ned reached up to grasp her wrist, fingers warm and calloused, just like she remembered. Clara violently tore herself away, pushing him as she let go, gun re-cocked and aimed at his head and what did Ned do? He laughed. He fucking laughed at her. Deep, throaty but had a bell edge to it... Just like before. Clara blinked, mentally losing the little balance she had left to cling onto.

"Really Fox? You're going to shoot me?"

Shoot him. Hug him. Pummel him. Question him. Clara didn't know what she was going to do, all she did know was if this lasted much longer, she would do something. God knows if that something would be good or bad but it would be something. That singular word swam around her mind, as if her thoughts were a whirlpool, trapping and sinking everything else but that damned word. _Why?_ Clara's feet braced, the arm holding the gun to Ned's head becoming straighter, stiffer, marble. So tense, Clara thought the damned limb would snap off any second.

"I told you not to fucking call me that!"

Why was he here? Why did he leave her behind? Why would he do this to her? Why let her believe he was dead? Why not send a note, a message... Anything to soothe the oozing wound his departure had inflicted upon her? Why? Ned's anger finally broke the surface of its skin prison, something Clara knew would happen. If anyone could equal her temper, it was this man in front of her... A man... He was a man now... So many years...

"I'll call you what I want to bloody call you!"

A man who was standing beside him, a shipmate or friend by the bewildered glare he was sending Clara, stepped forward, hand settling on his sheathed cutlass. He likely thought it was time to intervene, put down the upstart that was shouting at Ned, he couldn't have been much more of a fool if he tried. Even Ned's brother, back when they were nothing but happy little gutter rats, refused to get in between them when they argued.

Clara's temper rose to meet Ned's head on, as it always had, and reacted on instinct. Dark, morbid instinct as she swerved her arm to the side, shot her last bullet from that gun, holstered it once more only to pull out her spare flintlock, re-aiming at Ned in a fluid procession that was as hauntingly beautiful as it was frightening. Consequently, another body hit the floor, gargles of a death rattle breaking through the thud as the man who had taken a step towards her clawed at his throat, fruitlessly trying to stem the flow of blood pouring out his neck.

Clara felt no guilt, no remorse for the man who had finally grown still, leaving this word for the next. She felt nothing but the nagging self-derision that her shot was a little off this time. Steadying her hand, raising the barrel an inch on Ned's face, Clara's head cocked to the side, each word that spilled from her lips even, trickling like water, calm despite their meaning.

"Next bullet is going through your last good eye if you don't get the hell out of here Lowe."

Ned gave her a smirk she knew all too well, a one-sided twitch of his lips that spoke of how he found something highly amusing but equal parts contemptuous. He took a step forward, a hair breadth away from the barrel burrowing into his good eye, staring deeply down into the black whole. Could he see his own death there? She hoped he could, after all, if he wanted to play dead and she had ruined his little game, she could rectify it for him. Permanently this time. Instead, he stepped to the side, partially turning away from her, smiling as he twirled a ring around his thumb mindlessly.

"Lowe is it now? damn, that stings Fox...You mean that, don't you? I can see it in your eyes, you were never a good liar, your eyes always gave you away."

Clara scoffed as she clicked the hammer home, aim locked onto Ned's head, never wavering for a second. She knew Ned, mayhaps he had forgotten that, but she knew him better than himself sometimes. She knew his tricks. She knew his games. She knew his moves. You give Ned Lowe an inch, you slip once, you turn a blind eye and you can bet he will make you regret it.

"And you were always shit at knowing when to back down, but take my heed right now Ned, leave or you will be carried out of here like your buddy there."

He finally looked at her once more, his pupil a pinprick in a grey sea as he scanned her up and down, likely finding whatever he needed to find as he nodded, put on that audacious and nauseating smiley front she hated so much and nonchalantly shrugged his broad shoulders, rounding up the rest of his men that Clara had not taken notice off with a wave of his hand. For a split second, Clara's trigger finger twitched, not seeing the boy he used to be any more but a man... A man that was a troubling threat.

"It isn't like this is the only place to get a good drink or two to wash away the sand. You know where to find me, you always did Fox."

Then he was walking away, pausing a second next to an ashen-faced Eleanor Guthrie, leaning in uncomfortably close to her face, grinning that damnable grin, giving one last parting shot at the blond before he left in a gaggle of boisterous men and a wake of bloodshed and mangled corpses.

"Ah, Guthrie, as always, it's been a pleasure...Such a shame about the mess, now, isn't it? Be a dear and clean it up for me will ya? Good girl."

All Clara could think was at least this time she had got to see him walk away, not just disappear like a wisp of smoke in the wind. This second-hand consolidation prize left her bitter and vexed. The whole of Guthrie's was eerily silent for a short while after, no one moving or speaking, until some brave souls, Eleanor's 'servants' Clara would hazard a guess, crept forward on cautious feet and began dragging the dead out of the premises, then it seemed like a floodgate had opened with all the movement that took place, all the whispering and gossiping. The blood still warm on the floor seemed utterly forgotten.

A large, warm, calloused hand with nimble, long fingers landed on her shoulder with a soft pat, the fingers curling around to smooth over the flesh of her collarbone. Clara shook it off, not bothering to turn around to face who it was, she already knew only one person with those hands. Staring resolutely ahead, voice void of any and all emotion, Clara asked one simple question directed at Vane who was towering behind her.

"Did you know?"

Was that why he wanted to leave Guthrie's as soon as he did? Is that why he wanted her on his crew, not for Flint but because of Ned? Clara's eyes closed, a deep breath inhaled from flared nostrils, letting the air escape her lungs slowly, Clara tried to ease off on the unbound paranoia. She was on edge, rightly so in her book, she had after all just been confronted by a ghost. Still, Clara was slowly learning to place her anger where it belonged and right now, and plenty of times before she would admit, it did not belong aimed at Charles Vane. She wouldn't keep making the same mistake of taking it out on the one person, or two if you counted Silver, to have her back no matter what cliff she had decided to jump off that day.

"No."

Clara peeked up at Vane from over her shoulder, lone eye locked onto his. She smiled, an empty shell of a smile, gave a short nod and that was that. That was all she needed from Vane. If he said he knew nothing, she would believe him, he hadn't lied to her so far and she doubted he would start now… Well, she hoped, truly and deeply hoped, he wouldn't start now.

"Clara-"

Vane was cut off by the huffing arrival of Louis, who was so red in the face, Clara was sure the blood from the rest of his body had to currently pulse around his head, leaving the rest of his body as nothing but a shrivelled white mess. Bracing his hands on his knees as he sucked in great mouthfuls of air, luckily, Clara got the gist of what he was trying to tell her through the heaving of his chest, splintered by a wheezy cough here and there.

"Got… What you wanted… East-side of the… Beach… Huts… Red cross… With Gareth…Waiting…"

Clara's gaze flickered to Vane momentarily before she settled on Louis with a harsh bob of her head. It didn't take long for Vane to ask the question she knew was to inevitably come.

"And what is this about?"

Clara gave him a grin, this one snarky and dark, tantalizing in a way, like a forest caught in midnight, ethereal but with a hint of danger.

"Do you really want to know?"

 _Or do you trust me?_ Of course, that bit was left unsaid, but it was heavily implied. By the way Vane scanned her up and down, brows slightly pinched in the middle, be it caution or confusion, Clara couldn't tell but did it really matter at this point? He would either leave her to it, equating that he trusted her, or he would question further and this would tell Clara that maybe her trust in him was one sided. Clara often found, especially now, it was less about what was said and more about what was left unsaid that gave lofty meaning to such a simple thing as words. Three heartbeats later, Vane blinked, nodded and dismissed her with a gruff remark.

"Got enough shit on my plate without adding whatever you've cooked up onto the pile."

Clara left in a swift twirl, a stomp of boots and a puffing Lois trailing after her.

* * *

"Is he here Louis?"

Clara asked, non too gently to her silent companion perched at her side, both facing the tightly pressed huts on the east side of Nassau beach. That morning had been rough, peaceful sleep coming few and far between the longer she stayed on Nassau sands, the worry and strain of forming plan after plan and of course, finding out just an hour ago that Fanc-… Ned Lowe was still alive? It had become too much to handle. So, as Clara had learned as a baker, you broke down the complex recipe into step by step formation, priorities listed from 'it will soil or melt' to 'it can wait till very last'. Ned, unfortunately or fortunately, Clara had not decided what category he fit into yet or if she ever would, was placed at the very bottom.

Guthrie… Vane… The Maroon queen… Flint… Silver… England… Now Ned, there were too many people to balance, too many variables to equate for, too many directions to look and be apprehensive of and Clara found herself tired beyond belief, edgy, her fingers twitching as if mindlessly reaching for her gun and her thoughts an endless tirade of what ifs and should I's. A part of her wanted to run, to never look back, the other half of herself had a more sinister and worrying reaction. The other half wanted to shoot every single fucker that crossed her path just so she could breathe for a moment. Nassau was a heavy place, atmosphere tense and draining, breathing, such a normal and fundamental function seemed to be difficult these days, especially for Clara.

"Gareth, yes he's waiting with the woman like you ordered."

Clara snapped to, something she would have to watch out for… Another thing she would have to look out for. She got lost in her own mind far too often lately and that simply would not do. Shaking herself free from the doubt and anxiousness sinking inside her gut like a cold, wet stone, Clara squared her shoulders, focused on the hot heat from the boiling sun prickling at her exposed flesh and pushed everything else to the back of her mind. One thing at a time, one step followed by another. First Naft and Eleanor… Then, well, she would decide that later. Looking at Louis from the corner of her eye, Clara jerked her head in the direction of the huts in front of her, frown pinching the middle of her brows.

"Not Gareth, James? The pox marked bastard whose been giving information over to Hornigold and Eleanor?"

This plan was risky, it had taken many of her sleeping hours, leaving her staring at nothing as she planned for every possible outcome she could think of. One wrong step and this whole thing would be a fucking disaster. She hadn't come this far just to fail. Nassau was like a stage really, pick the backdrop, make sure the right actors were in their spots and the narrative was all yours to manipulate and form to your own plot. James was a hazardous actor to say the least, but a necessity if she was going to get this done. Thankfully, Louis, Gareth and Francis had not disappointed.

"Aye, Gareth did as you asked and dropped that he and I were doing something very important for you over here in the huts and that's why he couldn't go drinking with the lads, while James was in hearing distance. I still don't understand why you don't just tell Gareth to tell James you're going after the fort. Surely it would cut out all this…"

Clara's gaze wandered back to the huts, knowing exactly which one housed Naft who would be guarded by Francis, the one Louis had put a red cross on the shabby door, paint still wet, where Gareth would be, waiting with the final piece to this little play and the dark shadowy tunnels and little ally ways James would likely be lurking in… The perfect place between the two points, exactly where she wanted him. Yes, she had picked the best backdrop to this little scene. Now… Now she just had to act her part. Clara smirked a little at the slightly adorable confused expression on Louis's flat, meaty face.

"Sneaky, two faced bullshit? Because Louis, the first lesson Vane ever taught me was this, never bring anything up. Do you know what that means? People will fill in their own agenda to your actions. If James sees us questioning Naft about Hornigold, even if the word fort is but mentioned once, and subsequently reports this back to Eleanor and Hornigold like I think he will, they will believe we're after the fort and not after Hornigold and the consortium."

Well, that was what Clara was hoping on anyway. If she could divert Eleanor's attention to the fort, if Eleanor thought she was after the prized castle of brick and mortar, Guthrie's gaze far away from what Clara was really after, the consortium, she may just pull this off. However, making that happen and making sure it looked like she hadn't orchestrated everything to look that way, inadvertently tipping Eleanor off, was more… Problematic than Clara had originally thought it would be. Eleanor was smart, as grievous as Clara was to admit it, she would smell something off from a mile away and Clara simply could not have that.

Nevertheless, the Maroon queen had told her exactly what she had needed. Play dead until the viper strikes, then snatch it by the throat. If Eleanor thought she knew what Clara was doing, Eleanor wouldn't look any deeper, thinking she already had what she wanted… This… This was Clara playing dead. Let Eleanor think she had her trapped and figured out and then lunge.

"And why are we after Hornigold and not all of them? You know… Swipe them all out while we can?"

Clara sighed deeply, the sound rattling her ribcage. They couldn't 'swipe' them all out at once as Louis so elegantly put it. They all had one thing she didn't, numbers. Yes, she had men loyal to her now. Gareth, Louis, David and Francis willingly abducting a well-known captain on her orders without a single question had proved that, but a few men against the entire crews of the consortium combined as well as Eleanor's own loyalists? Or whoever else she gathered onto her side, which could or couldn't possibly include Vane? They wouldn't stand a chance. That left one other tactic. Pick the bastards off one by one. The consortium was Eleanor's greatest asset…But it was also her biggest weakness.

The consortium brought her complacency with the pirates, them willing to stay under her rule if it brought them money and prizes, like the consortium did, as well as well-known pirate captains standing on her side, adding credit and legitimacy to her little business endeavour. However… You take that away from her, take away that credibility and the promise of hunts and prizes to the pirates of Nassau and that 'loyalty' they so called hold with her will soon crumble to dust. The first step of getting Eleanor off her throne was through the destruction of the consortium, and then by taking the ships schedule logs and the fort… But Clara was getting ahead of herself. First the consortium, then the rest. Step by step. Ingredient by ingredient. Clara swivelled slightly to face Louis, head low, voice even lower, eyes flickering around her to make sure there were no passers by too close to overhear her.

"Simple. If I am able to knock Eleanor down a peg or two but unable to snatch the consortium from her, the Consortium that is currently holding captains loyalty to her, all of them scrambling to get in like a dog after a bone, Hornigold is her greatest allies in the consortium, the one with the most power under her… Her right-hand man so to speak. We take out Hornigold and Eleanor has no one but Frasier, Naft and Lawrence to fall back on, the consortium without Hornigold will be weak, it will crumble and die without his name on its birth certificate, then this consortium will be disbanded. At the moment, Eleanor's greatest asset is that bloody consortium and we can't have that now, can we? To get to Eleanor, we have to take out Hornigold. Worryingly enough, Hornigold is a competent captain, has a bloody fort and loyal men, after Eleanor, his our biggest threat and unfortunately for us, his Eleanor's biggest benefactor and allies right now. Naft, Frasier and Lawrence on the other hand…"

The silence didn't hang long before Louis swooped in with a chuckle and a whimsical sentence that finished Clara's thoughts perfectly. Good, they were starting to think like Clara now.

"Are nothing but two-bit puppets for Hornigold and Eleanor."

Clara smiled brightly as she turned fully around to face Louis, sand kicking up under her boots as she good-naturedly clapped Louis on the shoulder, hand stalling on his broad shoulder, keeping eye contact as she did so.

"Exactly. We cripple Hornigold, we cripple Eleanor and how do we get to Hornigold?"

The frown was back on Louis's face, his words weary, as if he had gotten it wrong… He hadn't.

"Through the consortium…"

Clara's smile and words took on a sly edge, something deep and dangerous glinting in her eye, something reminiscent of a knife's edge, the fingers still resting on Louis's shoulder dug in slightly.

"And how do we go through the consortium?"

The bright flash of recognition shined in Louis's irises, her line of reasoning finally taking root in his mind.

"By Naft, Frasier or Lawrence… You know, you're brilliant. Terrifying… But brilliant. But I still don't understand why you want Eleanor and Hornigold to believe we're going after the fort and not what we really are, the consortium?"

Clara let her hand flop back down to her side, smiling widely as she twirled back to the beach huts. Clara had never played chess, she didn't understand its rules and regulations, but she had seen people play it before, in the nooks and crannies of the pub, swearing as they lost money, but what she did know was it was a hard game, a game that took stratagem to the next level. Forebodingly, Clara felt like she was playing chess right now, Louis, Gareth, James, Francis, David, Naft… Everybody was a piece on the board, her sat on one side, Eleanor the other, plucking up who she wanted to place where… Only the lighting was too dark and she couldn't tell whether her set was the black set or the white set, the good or the bad. Did it really matter any more? Blood was blood and Clara was no longer naive, she knew it would be spilled in her name. She almost wanted it to turn the sands under her feet scarlet just to show everyone she could change Nassau so radically. Almost. Did that sudden understanding of herself and life make this right? No. Was she still going through with it?

Hell yes.

"Because, dear Louis, if they are looking towards the fort, their eyes are not on the consortium, leaving it open for a strike, or if this goes well, they will be eyeing Naft once we sway him to our side. If they suspect Naft has become… A liability, as well as suspecting us of going for the fort, it will hide what we're really after. They will first look towards the fort, and when suspicions are roused on why and more importantly how we are going to take the fort, when they dig deeper, which they will surely do, they will come to see Naft has sold them out and once finding that out, they will stop digging deeper, thinking they have uncovered all there is to uncover, leaving us and our actual plan skirting under their flowery fucking skirts until it is too late for anyone to do anything about it."

Using Naft as a scapegoat, as their smoke screen was wrong, Clara had no arguments there, but someone had to play the smoking gun for them, hiding the real one that was Clara, and she would rather it be Naft than anyone else. Anyone she had come to care about relatively deeply given the circumstances. Of course, Clara had tried to think of a plan that would scrub out a scapegoat all together, god knows if Eleanor or Hornigold would have the poor thing slaughtered or not when it all came to light, but there was no other way she could think of if this was the route she was taking… The only route available to get to Eleanor.

Eleanor was a worthy opponent, smart and savvy, if Clara didn't have some poor soul run out into the line of fire, shouting and waving their own gun, Eleanor would lock straight onto her and she just couldn't have that. She needed cover, she needed the shadows, it was the only way she was going to win this game they were playing. So, why, no matter how many times she told herself this, repeated it in her mind like a holy prayer from a devout clergyman, did she feel so dirty? So wrong? So rotten?

"Why Naft and not Lawrence or Frasier?"

Clara didn't bother this time turning to face Louis, instead staring resolutely ahead to the huts. Mayhaps, if she spoke them to the wind, the breeze will jumble them up, resort them, somehow make them feel right and not as putrid as they felt as they fell from her lips. Clara gave a gruff chuckle. And Mayhaps, one day she would fuck Vane, have her own ship, own crew and be the most feared pirate on the seven seas. The comparison, both sides, felt as likely to come to fruition as the other, in other words, impossible. If she told herself every time she did something like this it was too late to turn back, one of these times it would be true and maybe, just maybe, she could live with herself then. Funny enough, she had a feeling that day was closer than anyone believed it to be and she didn't know whether that was a mercy or complete damnation. She supposed she would see when the day finally did come.

"Because Naft is stupid, but not Lawrence or Frasier level of stupidity. If we make Naft believe we're after the fort and not the consortium, the consortium that has made him richer than his own skill-set and talents would have let him be if not for the consortium, the same consortium he would rather not destroy for such reasons, he will help with a little push. He's also smart enough to know while he is in a group with Lawrence, Frasier and Hornigold, they are not his friends, more like his competition. Competition I bet he is willing and wanting to get a leg over if we fan those flames correctly. This will help him get one over on Hornigold… If he believes we're going after the fort. Lawrence would give it away before it really began, damn it, he can't even keep his own obnoxious shit secret and Frasier doesn't have that competitive streak Naft has. Second, under Hornigold, Naft is the most worrying, we can deal easily with Lawrence and Frasier, Naft, not so much. While lacking the manpower and fort Hornigold has, he does have loyalty from his men, something Lawrence does not have and Frasier is one wrong move from a full-out mutiny… No, better we get him on side and after, well, after it will be too late. And finally, we have something to use over Naft. You did find what I asked you to, didn't you?"

Clara risked a glance over her shoulder to Louis and for a split second, one fluttering heart beat, the blazing sun had blocked out all his features and for that single moment, Clara had thought he was Fancy, him and her back as children, scheming and sniffing their way through London, picking pockets of any who dared come too close. For that heartbeat, this was all just another game concocted in the mind of Fancy, a game little Clara was all too eager to play through if only to keep up with Ned. Then she blinked and little Fancy was gone. So were the games, the laughter, the jabs and innocence.

 _Gone._

Clara's head snapped away from Louis, the air leaving her lungs in a silent huff as she blinked rapidly. No. Not now. Later. She would think, stew, cry, scream later. Now, however, she had a job to complete, a job that needed her full attention. Fanc-… Ned-… Lowe had been dead for nearly a decade, he could stay dead for a few hours more, god knows death had done him good so far.

"Yes. She's in another hut, just say the word and Francis, me and Gareth will bring her in once the time is right."

Clara gave a keen nod, curls fluttering from under her bandanna, a few clasps and beads twinkling and clinking at the rushed and sharp movement.

"Good. I don't think I'll need you to bring her in, it's only if we need her. Mayhaps Naft will see it from our view before then… If not, well, it's always good to have a backup plan or something to hang over his head. Right then, get in position, it's time to get this over with."

She heard more than she saw Louis shuffle, felt his looming shadow pass over her as he ambled past her, towards the alcove between the huts and the narrow passageways between them… The very same passageways she had run and darted through to get away from Billy bones. God, that felt like three lifetimes ago. Well, she supposed it was at least one lifetime ago, she had died since then after all, and didn't the passing of death equate to a new life? Before he could fully get passed her, just a measly two steps ahead, still close enough she could whisper to him, Clara called for his attention.

"Louis?"

Louis froze instantly, his head slowly cranking around to peer at her, neck skewed awkwardly.

"Yes?"

Clara's tongue suddenly felt dry, the long drawn out speech that was meant to consolidate his loyalty dying briskly on her lips. No. No speeches today, no lies or extravagance that she had mentally nicknamed 'channelling Rackham', just simple, honest gratitude. She owed it to him, Francis and Gareth for all they had done for her.

"I just wanted to say… Without you, David, Francis or Gareth I wouldn't be able to do this… I… Thank you."

Apparently, no lies or honeyed words meant lack of elegance too, when it came to Clara. Still, her message had gotten across to Louis, if by the sudden glint in his eye could be taken into consideration and especially seen as the thank you at the very end had, in fact, turned out more of a bark than words. This is why she had chosen him, Gareth, Francis and David, although David was back at Guthrie's keeping an eye on Eleanor for her. They didn't want long winded words, they didn't want elegance and propriety or even words in general, they simply wanted the truth, or if in that absence, action over words. Those were her kind of people.

"No reason for a thanks Ma'am. We have your back. So do many other men on the Ranger and Nassau and that number is growing each day. Remember that."

She didn't know whether that bubbling feeling in her veins was excitement or dread. She didn't think she wanted to know either.

"Thank you all the same… But don't ever call me fucking Ma'am again. It's Clara or bloody Flint if you can't manage that."

Louis gave out a barrelled laugh, deep but somehow high-pitched, warring with his haggard and bulky figure almost beautifully.

"Oh, and Ma-… Clara?"

Clara's answer was weary, slightly bewildered and dusted with apprehension.

"Yes…"

Louis refused to meet her eye, instead choosing to stare at her boots, still, a ghost of a smile haunted his thin lips, a good sign if there was such a thing any more.

"Even without us, I'm sure you would do anything you set your mind to. As I said, terrifying… but brilliant."

Clara's cheeks flushed, thankfully hid by the almost permanent sunburn she always had nowadays. Reaching behind her, she scratched the back of her neck, high praise indeed from someone like Louis, a man who was getting in his elder years, having served under many captains, seen many captains come and go. Gathering her barrings, Clara's shoulders squared before she began marching passed him, pushing of the compliment as she went, speaking to him as she passed.

"Right… Well… Make sure James is close enough to hear the conversation, but not close enough to get suspicious on how his able to get so close without repercussion. Just pretend you're guarding the hut me, Francis and Naft will be in, that will be enough to draw James in."

She couldn't see him, but she thought he nodded, shouting at her retreating back as she marched forth into a situation she had set up, meticulously, yet still felt like she had no control over. That would be the day, the day Clara Flint finally felt like she was in control of something or someone, instead of feeling like some unknown, unfathomable, unspeakable force was pushing her into an inescapable direction.

"Aye, aye captain!"

Clara didn't miss a beat as she shouted back to him, not daring to turn away from the hut with the red cross, if she looked away, she might run away and she couldn't have that.

"I'm not your captain!"

Louis's answering bellow of a yell brought back that bubbling feeling. However, this time, she was leaning more towards naming it dread than excitement.

"Yes. Yes you are!"

Clara made it to the hut, the old door long ago having lost its door knob or handle, just a splintered hole where it should have been, leaving Clara to brace her hand on the wood, feeling the hot, smooth surface under her fingertips. This was it. What laid beyond this door, her actions, how she played this would decide everything and yet, not decide nearly as enough that needed a decision on. In there, she had to be a different person, a brute, someone willing to kill just for the sake of killing and she needed to sell that to the inhabitant. The bubbling feeling intensified, solidifying in her veins and Clara had the harsh precognition that what she would do in there would not be an act, not at all, but simply letting the reflection of herself out of the mirror of her dark Psyche. Still, saying, even to herself that it was all an act was better than what the truth was, it made it easier to sleep. So, 'act' she would. This time, the wind did take her words, did jumble them up, but they tasted the same. Bitter and burnt. She pushed the door open and strolled in like she owned the place.

"And so the play begins."

* * *

The interior of the hut was dusty, drab in colour, cobwebs clinging to every corner and crevice, the floorboards so old, some where broken and the others squawked and squeaked in protest under her thundering booted steps. Francis was by the single box-shaped window, a heavy, leather book clasped in his hands, staring out dutifully, watching. He only sent her a glance, a slight skew of the lips that could be interpreted as a smile and a bob of the head in greeting.

Francis was a man of few words, something Clara adored about the man. Louis was filled with questions that made her re-think her own approach. Gareth was filled with advice she would ponder over. David was filled with observations and info he gladly passed on and Francis, well, Francis was one of her favourites because of one basic thing, he was filled with action. A good council to have around you… No. A great council to have around you. A council Clara will need in the coming months or years.

There was a lone table in the middle of the compressed hut, one leg missing, a towering stack of books used to keep it balanced, although it looked anything but balanced. For some strange reason, Clara felt a camaraderie with that table, the act of looking balanced and put together when you were anything but resonating with something profound within her. In front of the table, facing each other, the table off to the side were two seats, both having seen better days like that table. One was empty, the other, however, had a weary and scowling occupant. Clara sauntered in, but never took the seat, choosing to stand, to rise and loom over the man in the chair. Every movement, every word, they had consequences and reasoning, this was just her laying her dominance down before anyone had uttered a word.

"Ah, Naft, it's a pleasure to meet you."

Her words were fluid, gentile, even, camouflaging the threat lurking beneath it. Naft, given his due, didn't flinch, didn't look confused or any other redundant emotion, instead he scanned her up and down, the scowl never leaving his face, unnameable accent thick and jolting. The smile never left Clara's face.

"You're Flints offspring, ain't ya? Heard stories about you I have. Also saw what you did to those two men back at Guthrie's this morning."

Ah, so Naft was present for that was he? That meant the nice, innocent little girl approach wouldn't work. Shame, it would have been the easiest to pull off, to yank on his hero complex she knew he had from the Intel David had given her about him. No matter. There were more than one way to get around this. Still, having the first thing acquainted with her when being brought up as being simply Flints offspring grated on her more than slightly uncomfortably. Never mind, Naft would learn from that mistake by the time night fell, and so would the many others that thought the same once all was said and done.

"Pleasant stories I hope? Talking about hope, I hope you can forgive me for what… Transpired this morning. Someone had to step in or more would be dead. "

Clara said pleasantly, tottering over to the table, running a finger over its face and peering at the thick dust that coated her finger as a consequence. Flicking her finger to get rid of the dust, Clara purposely looked everywhere but him. Just another stitch in her costume, another act to show him who was in charge here, another ploy to show him how she didn't fear him or really care for his answer, especially if she was so brazen to turn her back on him while he spoke. Just because the innocent act had not worked, didn't mean the nice one wouldn't. That being said, apparently it had not worked as Naft scoffed heartily at her. Fine. If Naft wanted to be that way, there were infinitely more ways to go about this rather than being bloody nice. Wanker.

"Don't try and pull the wool over my eyes lassie, no one around here does anything for others. You seemed awfully close to that Lowe fellow… Old friends?"

And her façade shattered with that single fucking name being spoken to her. Thankfully, her back was turned to Naft, hiding the drop of the smile and the snarl that took up shop on her face. She knows what Naft is implying, the fact she had gotten involved in that fight not for Gareth or others, but for Lowe himself, so Lowe wouldn't die. The most concerning revelation was Naft was unlikely to be alone in his thoughts, others who had played witness to what happened that morn likely echoing exactly what he thought. Mistake number two, Naft was treading deep waters and he did not even realize it. The plan of just shooting him was looking more and more tempting.

Yet, Clara pushed down the bout of sickening anger that simmered to life in the bottom of her belly, the anger brought forth by people who had no idea what the hell they were looking, thinking and speaking of, judging her. What right did any of them have? None. Clara turned to face Naft, backing up a few steps to kickback against the wall, shadows swallowing her form ominously, arms crossed over her chest, head tauntingly cocked to the side as she finally looked at Naft. The bob of his Adam's apple didn't go by unnoticed.

"You're right and you could say old friends. Then again, I'm not the only one with old friends on this island am I? You… Lawrence…Frasier… Hornigold. Now, there's a group of comrades that seem close. You all have your own companies, don't you?"

Naft's jaw clenched, a telling tick she would have to keep an eye out for. His gaze flickered towards the door, closed now, but quickly deflected when Francis took a leisurely step towards the door. God only knows whether the moron was thinking of either trying to run or killing her and dumping her body here, but either would be useless. He had no weapons, she had told Francis strip him of those before bringing him here and she had Gareth in the other hut if Naft somehow got passed Louis. His next words were brisk, each a biting yip of a small, cornered dog. It worryingly brought Clara a flash of hungry satisfaction. Clara shook that feeling off as soon as it came.

"You could say so."

In an act of over exaggeration, Clara kicked off from the wall and prowled closer, hand raised, clicking her fingers, fake confusion and bewilderment chopping through her face. She purposely made the clicking sound in double pairs, _click click, click click, click click…_ A fake heartbeat that drummed through the air and raised the hackles on the back of Naft's neck. When people hear a heartbeat, it puts them on edge, makes them jittery, uncoordinated, the sound always, somehow, some way echoing their own heart beat, showing them just how very mortal they all were. Right now, Clara wanted Naft to know just how very bloody mortal he was, how every heartbeat mattered… How all that could be snatched away from him by one pissed off red-head he was currently in the vicinity of. Every little twitch of Clara's body was controlled, every expression a mask, every action practised and executed with planned repercussions, all to manipulate this situation and subsequently Naft himself.

"Francis… What do you call a group of Companies? I've forgotten the word… Conclave? No. Congress? No…"

On closer inspection, with Naft's sleeves rolled up to his elbows, jacket, hat and scarf missing, likely having been snatched from one of the beds at Noonan's, Clara could see the goosebumps on his tanned skin. Good. He was one step closer to being exactly where she wanted him. From her peripheral vision, Clara could see the vicious grin that adorned Francis's face, the sarcastic taunt in his voice as he answered her. _Click click, click click, click click…_

"Consortium, Flint. They're called a Consortium"

 _Bang._ Clara clapped, watching aptly as Naft gave a jump. The clicking stopped by the ringing sound of her clap, just like how Naft's heartbeat would stop if she put a bullet through his heart. By the wide-eyed glance he shot between her and Francis, he had picked up on that little hidden treat too. Now that she had his undivided attention locked on her, did she finally walk to the open seat and plonk herself onto it, one arm slicked over the back, legs crossed, body slightly turned to the side… The perfect view of her flintlock gun on show for Naft's eyes to devour, which he did, just as she wanted him to. There he goes, one more step closer. The smile came back to her face like a flower in rushed bloom.

"A consortium, that's it! Now, thinking about it and looking at you guys… It surprises me, really, if I'm honest. Hornigold and Eleanor, sure they have business worth while conducting with such an endeavour. But you, Frasier and Lawrence… I just don't see it… Maybe for labour or paperwork but for anything else? No."

Attention acquired, now it was time to take a hit at his pride, something Naft had an over-abundance of from what David had told her. The clench to his jaw came back ten-fold, telling Clara her aim and mark had hit true. His indignant shuffle of exasperated words only confirmed that.

"Me, Frasier and Lawrence bring just as much to the table!"

Clara swung her legs around front, now that he had spotted the gun strapped to her hip, there was no more need to keep the pose. Alternatively, Clara spread her legs wide, as wide as the chair legs and braced her elbows on her knees, hands clasped together, resting her head on said hands, head still cocked to the side as if indulging a curious child with a warm smile in place. Her words bellowed what her posture was telling Naft.

"I'm sure you do, or at least I'm sure that is what Hornigold and Eleanor tell you at any rate. But then again… Can you really trust what they say? I don't know about you but Hornigold, to me, seems to like to keep people down, keeps himself up doesn't it? if everyone else is under his boot? If everyone else is kept in there place, keeps the power… Well, you know were the power is, I'm sure I don't need to tell you."

At the end of her speech, Clara pulled back and leaned casually into her chair, waving her hand in front of her face as if to dispel a cloud of smoke or something foul smelling. By the scrunch of Naft's nose, that foul smelling thing was Hornigold's name. Brilliant. She had guessed right, Naft wasn't exactly pleased with the structure of the consortium and had placed that blame on Hornigold. That competitiveness, that distaste for Hornigold she could foster, breath more life to. Still, Naft's ego wouldn't let him admit what was really going on, even to himself as he huffed and puffed at her. No matter. She would show him the truth if she had to hold him by the scruff of the neck and press his face into it.

"The consortium is equal! We all have even footing and shares for our contributions! I'm just as important as-"

"Ah, but you don't do you? Well, not from someone looking in. I mean, Hornigold's been given a fort… _The_ fort of Nassau by Eleanor Guthrie herself, and from the records I've collected, the shares aren't as even as you believe them to be… Francis, hand over the log book to Mr. Naft will you."

On the arm of her chair, her thumb and middle finger rubbed together as she watched Naft with hooded eyes. This was it, if this log book didn't turn Naft, she only had one other option and she didn't exactly want to go down that road. It was why she had kept practising her reading and writing, so she, herself, could read all log books David and Gareth had managed to sneak out of Noonan's, under the pretense of checking over the income so Eleanor wasn't swindled out of money, when in fact, she had been pilfering the log books that could help her turn heads. This one, this lone red, leather book was the most important of the ones she had gathered. It had taken her, well David and Gareth, a while to grab it out from under watchful eyes and replace it with a dud. Still, it was worth it, especially if Naft's reaction to the numbers in the book was anything like hers had been.

Francis snook forward with sure steps, dumping the book in Naft's lap carelessly. Naft shot a weary look at the both of them before temptation got the better of him, just like she knew it would, and he flickered through the book, finding out exactly what she had. It was a simple accountancy book, used to store the income and outcome of the consortium, hidden from prying eyes in Noonan's. However, it wasn't the log book Naft was shown when he went to meetings, no that one was a dud too, one constructed by Eleanor herself, this one… This one was the real deal. By the way he flicked the book back to the front page, running his fingers over the ink stamp of Eleanor's, before returning back to the pages with a feverish flicker of pages and hungry reading, Naft had come to that conclusion by himself.

"How did you even get this? Eleanor stores all Consortium records in Noonan's for safe keeping, under lock and key, she and Hornigold are the only two with a set, as well as their accountants who write the books."

Clara chuckled, hands coming to lay folded in her lap, re-crossing her legs. Attention acquired, pride hit, now was the time for a bit of ego stroking as well as pointing out what a good allies she would be in the coming months. It was what Hornigold and Eleanor did after all, wasn't it? Weaken your enemy and then show them how strong you are, show them how it would be better if they were on your side. By every star in the sky, Naft better be on her side or else. She had not put all this effort in this little scheme of hers to come away empty handed.

"You don't think I would be here, speaking to someone as… Impressive as you if I didn't already have my own fingers in Noonan's did you? Accountants are easy to sway, if given the right motive. Have you seen the numbers yet?"

Naft returned back to the book, scanning flaking parchment with wide eyes that grew wider with each new page turned. When he got to the newest entry, he exploded.

"That bitch! I was promised one fifth of all revenue, I'm only getting-"

Clara stood up, walking over to Naft, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder as she too turned to stare down the open book in his lap. Eleanor, in the end, had been the one to given her the in. Her greed was what gave Clara the room to move and plan. If Eleanor had not been swindling her own god damned books, Clara would have no basis to turn Naft against her. Yet, she had and so Clara had all the room she needed to act against Eleanor… Given by Eleanor herself. Irony was a bitch. All it took was one mistake on either side and luckily, Clara had found Eleanor's first and she planned to exploit that for all it was worth.

"One sixteenth at a push. A very, very harsh push If I'm honest."

Clara let her hand fall from Naft's shoulder, watching delightedly as he slammed to book shut, flung it onto the table, the poor thing wobbling under the sudden strain, jumped up and began pacing. Really, it wasn't just her who had hit Naft's pride right now, Eleanor had too, thinking she could get passed Naft's lack of business sense to get what she wanted. Money. And all the while Eleanor had done that, Clara could play off it. Perfect, she couldn't have orchestrated this even if she had planned to.

"She's been skimming me of my money! The money I earned!"

Of course, Clara knows it's Eleanor who has done this, but Eleanor is not what Clara wants Naft to focus on, no. Clara needed Naft's attention on Hornigold, not Eleanor. So, as if speaking to a wounded animal, but not daring to make it too thick or obvious, she didn't need to wound Naft's ego more than it already had, he might lash out at her then instead of Hornigold, Clara wondered over to Naft, stalling his pacing as she leaned in and laid the seeds of poison. Clara's stomach gave an almighty churn at her own sugary words, the lies spilling from her lips like a waterfall, but it was too late to turn back. Always too late.

"He. He's been swindling you. I mean, why would Eleanor, who so dearly trusts and needs you, I mean she gave you a place on her consortium did she not, do this? That just speaks of how she trusts you… But Hornigold? Well, as I said, Hornigold does seem like the one to keep others down, does he not Francis?"

Naft obviously already has envy and ambition against Hornigold, it's easier to use that than to build from scratch his distrust of Eleanor. Clara didn't have time to grow that plant… Not yet anyhow. Mayhaps later. Now though was the time for Hornigold, Eleanor would come later. Francis gave a sharp retort, not as poetic or inspiring as she had hoped but he backed her all the same.

"Aye, he does Clara, right rat-faced bastard if ya ask me."

Naft stopped his pacing, half frozen, steadily turning to face Clara head on, she didn't back down from his gaze. His eyes squinted and Clara could see the weariness back. Good, he wasn't as easily manipulated as first thought. She would need that if she was going to use him as an in to the consortium. God forbid she did all this for him to go back to Eleanor and Hornigold only to turn tail once more because of a few words from them.

"And why would you show me this? As I've said, no one does anything for free or for others. What's your angle?"

Now it was Clara's turn to pace, the thunk, thunk, thunk of her boots oddly reassuring as she walked back and forth, keeping her eyes locked on Naft.

"I've come to see Naft, can I call you Naft? I've come to see Naft we have very similar priorities as of now. Priorities we can help each other out with. That is, if your game?"

Naft squared up, looking down his nose at her from his taller frame. Clara wanted to deck him in the face then. She had seen that look before, back on the lords and ladies of London, the fucking audacity. However, Clara had gotten better at controlling her anger and so, did nothing of the sort, neither did her anger show on her face.

"You want a place on the consortium… Or Vane does and he's sent his lackey to bargain with me. Well you can tell him what Eleanor told him, he has to get rid of-"

Clara didn't like being called lackey, and while she had come a long way in controlling her anger, she wasn't at the point to let that remark slide of her back like she should have. Instead she smiled, teeth glinting in the low light of the shaded hut, cutting Naft off from his tirade. If only she had let him finish his sentence, mayhaps the course of the next week could have been avoided. Nevertheless, Clara was not clairvoyant and once again, her anger proved detrimental to her own cause.

"No, sorry. Vane has no idea about this or even that I'm here right now. This is just between you and me Naft, and once again, you're wrong, I want no place on the consortium."

Naft drew back within himself, eyes becoming more hooded, more cautious.

"Then… Then what is it you want?"

Clara held up a lone finger, face half cast in shadows from the window and the strong sunbeams breaking through, stuck between light and dark, a state of being Clara felt more than eerily spoke of inside of herself rather than the flesh on the outside.

"What is the one thing that differs Hornigold from the rest of us?"

Naft puffed out a billow of air, looking towards the ceiling as he began rattling off things.

"Eleanor's favour? His money? His large crew?…"

Then Naft's gaze snapped to Clara, the light shining brightly in his hazel eyes as they both said the same thing at the same time.

"The fort."

Naft ran a tired hand over his sweaty brow, fingers delving into his hair, slicking it back with the sweat his hand had accumulated from her forehead. Bumbling over to one of the chairs, he sank into it like a puppet with his strings cut off, mumbling out words that seemed more directed towards himself than to Clara or Francis. Clara cut him off before he got too deep into his own thoughts. She needed him angry and ready for action, not thinking. Thinking could lead him to figuring her ploy out.

"You want the fort. How would that change my or any standing at all? The fort is where all product is stored, the owner gets a slash of each sale as well as payment for its safe storage… Then you would have the fort, money and power-"

"But you're wrong. I have no crew, no ship and no place on the consortium, that weakens my standing considerably. I would be no threat, in fact, I would be an allies. If you help me get that fort, well, we would be friends would we not?"

But she does have a crew and after she does this, there would be no consortium, in short, she would have one of the main power bases. The docks, Noonan's, the fort and the consortium were the pillars of Nassau now, if she gets rid of the consortium, gains the fort and manages to at least weasel herself into Noonan's, which she has already half accomplished, her and Eleanor would be on even footing and then… Then she could kick Eleanor off her fucking throne and really begin to build a place free from rule and a single head of state. Funnily, freedom was not free, you had to fight for it, spill blood for it, die for it and well, Clara had already died once.

"And how exactly am I meant to help you get the fort? Hornigold has a tight grasp on it."

There we go, one more step and she had him. Getting down to the bone of the matter, Clara dragged the spare chair closer to Naft, sitting down, facing him head on.

"By the place you have on the consortium of course. You're privy to areas of Guthrie's that are off limits to me, as well as witness to sensitive information I have no hopes of garnering without your help. All I need from you is some information on the forts layout, on Hornigold himself and the keys to the safe Eleanor keeps in her office. The one that stores the ships schedules and I'll take care of the rest."

Naft let loose a torrent of laughter.

"All she wants is the keys to the safe, information and secrets she says. Ha! Do you realize the amount you ask of me? If Hornigold catches wind of me even thinking of the things you're asking for, I'm as good as out of the consortium! Or dead!"

Clara stood up in a flurry of movement, the chair screeching against the floorboards, so fast she could see Francis reach for his gun, startled slightly before his hand fell back to his side in a flop. Clara's tone held a desperate edge, determined, imploring Naft to see it the way she wanted him to.

"And that is why you will help me! You said it yourself, your place in Nassau, your livelihood, everything balances on the word of Hornigold. One wrong look and he can snatch that all from you. Are you really willing to let that be? Are you really willing to let someone like bloody Hornigold stand above you?"

If Naft was anything, anything at all, like her, that would win him over. The reason she became a pirate was because she wanted no one to hold anything above her head. The reason she joined Vane's crew was because she didn't want anyone, Flint, her father included, telling her what to do or how to do it. The reason she was trying to strip Eleanor of her crown was because Clara had had enough of people thinking their say was final, they opinion the pinnacle, their rule indisputable. Everyone had a say and with sovereignty in place, their voices were muted and hushed for a single person to say and do what they wanted. That wasn't how the world should work. That wasn't how Nassau, who was meant to be above and out of the reaches of England, should work. Clara's revolution, if successful, should change all that but first, Naft had to see it how she saw it.

"No… But… Eleanor, she would… I can't. I can't help you, even if I wanted too… The risk is too great. I can't."

Clara huffed, rubbing her eyes tiredly. She hadn't wanted to do this but do it she would if it insured Naft onto her side. Being nice had not worked. Bargaining had not worked. Trying to sway his opinion had not worked. That left one last spindly road to travel down. Threats and blackmail. Finally raising her gaze from the cradle of her hand, Clara flickered her eyes to Francis, giving a minute nod which he returned, showing her he knew what was about to take place and was ready on her order. With one final deep breath, Clara bared down upon Naft, the change in atmosphere clearly being picked up by the older man as he stiffened, hands clenching against the arms of his chair, legs tensing, as if ready to bolt. It was too late for that.

"I'm sorry, I thought you would see reason without me having to do this. Instead of thinking of the risk of the future, you should have been looking at the risk of the present. I never asked you to do this Naft… I'm telling you to. Francis, grab him and drag him outside."

Francis lunged for him just as Naft began to jump up, Clara's hand going straight to her gun in the minute possibility something went wrong and Naft was stronger than he looked. A moment of hustle and struggle took place before Francis secured Naft's arms behind his back in one of his tight hands, using his other to wrap around the back scruff of Naft's shirt, dragging and kicking the other man towards the door of the hut. Clara beat the two to the door, kicking it open with a swift kick as she stormed out and into the glaring sun and off to the left, passed the ally-ways, nodding at Louis as she passed, Francis diligently dragging a struggling Naft behind them.

Clara stopped at a hut second from the ally-way, bigger than the one she and Naft had been in, the doors and windows wide open to let the slight breezy draft through and cool in occupants, giving Clara and whoever stood next to her the perfect view of the couple currently inside, sitting at a table, playing cards. Gareth was dealing a new hand by the time Clara came to a stop, Naft being harshly shoved next to her, Francis keeping him in place. The woman opposite him must have been a real stunner in her younger years, however, decades of heavy sun, copious amounts of make-up she still wore and life itself had worn at the edges of her beauty, leaving behind a strange husk of what had once been. Her appearance had the desired reaction as Naft finally spotted her through the large windows, freezing in place, all struggle leaving him as if he was a leaf finally freed from the branch in a hurricane. Clara snatched Naft's shoulder, using his shock to drag him down and over to her, whispering in his ear.

"Lovely woman… You're wife If I'm correct? Yes, she is such a nice woman. You kept her well hidden, I'll give you that, just not hidden enough… Not from me. Shame really for this to play out. You see that shiny flint lock on Gareth's waist? The man currently talking to your dear, beloved wife?"

Naft swallowed and nodded, words a rush of syllables and harsh consonants, voice thick and heady, so chunky, bits of it got lodged in his throat and choked him.

"Please don't shoot her… Please… I'm… Please don't hurt her."

Clara kept her gaze on Gareth, words pushed through interlocked teeth, fangs biting into her lip painfully.

"Well, funny thing is, I told him if he sees me raise my left arm from exactly this spot and touch my eyebrow, to put a fucking bullet right between her eyes. You know what's really funny Naft?"

Clara didn't wait for a reply, her face crept closer, lips brushing the shell of Naft's ear, breath fluttering over his cheek as she growled the punchline at a waxen faced Naft.

"I'm left handed and coincidently, my eyebrow is fucking itchy. Tick tock Naft, I don't know how much longer I can ignore the itch."

Naft broke like a dam, his agreement spilling forth with a frantic shake of his head and a splutter of spittle.

"Fine! Fine! I'll do anything you ask… Just take her back home."

Clara smiled ferociously. Bingo. She had him right where she bloody wanted him. He may have side stepped at last moment, but she had still won in the end. Clapping him on the back, Clara pulled away a fraction, not enough to leave her threat hanging, but enough to give Naft some form of comfort. Her answering reply was goading at best. At worst, she was down right daring him to provoke her into following through with her ultimatum.

"Oh no, don't be silly. When Gareth and Louis went to get your wife, they found yours and your wife's house has been flooded. Gareth, bless him, has already offered her a place to stay, with him of course and you would never guess, she accepted! You can't be too careful with the… Elder generation and damp I've heard. You're welcome by the way."

Once again Clara leaned in closer and and prodded the bear that was Naft.

"In short, you say, blink or fucking sneeze the wrong way, if Hornigold, Eleanor, fucking anyone gets a sniff of this and all I have to do is itch my bloody eyebrow and your wife's skull will permanently have a new whole in it. Please tell me we are on the same page because Naft, I can always give you a demonstration."

Naft was almost nothing but a sagging lump of bone, muscle and sinew by now, leaving Clara to retreat a step and pull away from the down trodden man, confident he wouldn't try anything now. Looking over her shoulder, she nodded at Francis, who let go of Naft as if the man was on fire. Naft's voice was broken, even, low but most importantly, complacent.

"No! No… I understand. I get it now… Vane has the seat on the consortium, you have the Fort. In the end, the Ranger will be unstoppable."

Clara stalled, chin raised a fraction as she scrutinized Naft. This was the second time Naft had brought up Vane having a seat on the consortium, even after she had assured him this was not what she was here for. What the hell was going on? Did… Had Vane gained a seat on the consortium? The very one she was currently trying to destroy? Fuck,fuck, fuck! However, she let none of her inner turmoil or panic bleed through into her face and tone. Luckily.

"Vane… Vane's got a seat on the consortium?"

She had never seen a man look as tired as Naft did right then, the bright sunlight making his eyes water and pupils turn to little black pinpricks. Like a dog beaten one too many times, he refused to look at her, instead choosing to stare at his own feet.

"Didn't he tell you? The deal Eleanor offered… He kills Lowe, he gets a place on the consortium… He's already agreed. You're his first mate, aren't ya? Surely he told you? What the fuck does it matter any more. You win. Vane wins. The bloody Ranger crew wins… Just… I'll do what you say, just don't hurt my wife."

Clara felt a wave of sickness crash through her, churning and agitating all nerves within her body. The confusion came second, the endless questions that swam her thoughts. How? What? When? Then came the denial. No. Vane wouldn't agree to that. Vane knew who Ned was to her. He wouldn't do that to her… Could he? Then came the frantic rationalization. No, Vane had agreed before he knew exactly who Ned was. Now, after knowing, surely he would turn the deal down? Find another way onto the consortium? God-dammit, Eleanor obviously wanted him on board if she was willing to give him a try after all the shit they had pulled in sneaking off with the Urca gold. Vane would know all this… He wouldn't… He couldn't.

Eventually, the betrayal and hurt singed and crackled through her. Vane was going to kill Ned… It was the easiest way onto the consortium, Ned meant nothing to him, why wouldn't he take the deal? However, she didn't have long to ponder it as she spotted James listening in, lurking between the cracks that separated the huts from one another. Clara did what she did best, compartmentalize and cram everything down and to the back, telling herself she would deal later, while she was alone and could afford to slip. Smiling brightly as if nothing was wrong when everything was, was one of the hardest things Clara had ever done and she was sure her attempt left much to be desired, as empty and hallow as it was, she stepped back, making sure James heared her, she slapped Naft on the back and loudly spoke.

"I want the fort Naft! You will help me get it, nothing else matters."

Gareth peeked through the window and Clara nodded at him, watching as he smiled back before returning to a bubbling and chatty Mrs. Naft. Clara, swivelled back to Naft, scooped her arm around his and began to partially drag him away. He came willingly enough.

"Sorry, not much time for you to speak to your wife, not when we have work to do, don't worry… Gareth will take good care of her I'm sure. Now, what are you going to do Naft?"

Naft didn't miss the jump.

"I'm going to get you the keys to the safe, the fort layout, information on Hornigold and the ships schedule books."

Clara's grin was back, this time however, it stung her face like a bundle of nettles.

"Good! Well, go on then, better start. The sooner I get those books and keys the sooner you and Mrs. Naft can head home. I'm sure the damp will be gone by then and I'm less likely to itch my brow."

Naft nodded and with a soft shove, he tottered off, hands pulling and straightening his shirt and hair as he disappeared from view. Clara didn't realize she wasn't alone until Louis's voice broke the silence from her side.

"I didn't know you had ordered Gareth to shoot Mrs. Naft…"

Clara smiled up to him, this time the smile didn't hurt, nor did it feel as much as a forgery as the previous ones.

"I didn't. Naft was the one who jumped to me having her shot, I just played along because that was what he already believed was the case. As I said Louis, give people the right hints, they add their own agenda. I don't even think Gareth has bullets in his gun, he always forgets to load it…"

Louis let out a full bellied laugh, a laugh she would normally join in with but this time, found she could not. She had won this little battle, but she could feel a bigger one brewing on the horizon, darkening the corners of the sky, promising havoc and destruction. Clara, standing on that beach, enclosed in by the very huts she had run to freedom so long ago, instead of feeling that freedom now, that sweet tang of victory… Now she just feels dirty, hurt and sick.

Vane was going to kill Ned if she didn't do something about it.

* * *

Anne Bonny lounged back in her chair, picking her fingernails with a dagger idly, feet kicked up and crossed over the long table placed in Vane's tent. Jack sat beside her at one of the heads of the table, playing with his spectacles as he and Vane, who was sat at the other head of the table, tossed back and forth ideas about the deal Vane had been offered that morning. To Anne, it was all bullshit. She could hardly believe they were going through with this, especially after Vane had told her and Rackham about Red's history with Lowe. From all intents and purposes, from the little Vane had divulged to them, Lowe had been like a brother to Red and here they sat, planning his death. As she said, bullshit.

All grew still and hushed as the sound of the tent flap opening and swooshing close, Clara in all her glory strolling in, face blank, posture casual but Anne was no blind girl, even from this distance she could tell how stiff Clara's shoulders were. The sun burnt red-head gave nothing away as she stalked over to a side table currently being used to pin the corner of the tent down, plucking up the bottle of rum there, a glass and proceeded in pouring herself a drink, keeping her back to them as she spoke.

"So, what was all this about some clandestine deal that will dig us out of the horse shit we're buried in? It was from Guthrie… Wasn't it?"

All was silent, even as Clara turned and took a heavy gulp from her glass, topped up what she had drank, keeping the bottle close as she wondered over to the table, sitting down next to Vane. The bottle clinked loudly against the wooden table as Clara slammed it down, however, Anne noticed she never reclined in her seat like she normally did, instead looking ready to jump up at a moments notice. The weary glance Vane shot Clara showed Anne wasn't the only one to have noticed Clara's less than relaxed aura. Vane was the one to shatter the atmosphere.

"Nothing for you to worry about."

Clara gave humourless chuckle that Anne would admit sent a little chill down her spine, something hard to gain from the woman who had literally seen men holding their own intestines. There was just something so… Dark about it. No, that was the wrong word… Hurt. Hurt laughter was one of the worst things to hear, especially when Clara refused to look at anyone, instead drinking from her glass again, all amber liquid gone this time when she pulled the glass rim from her lips, swinging for the bottle and topping up once more. Finally turning to face Vane, Clara eyed him as if she had never seen him before. Rackham may have missed the flash of aching hurt in Vane's eyes at Clara's obvious unintentional slight against Vane, but Anne had not. Anne almost wanted to sigh in frustration. Vane didn't see Clara's own feelings, Clara didn't see Vanes and Rackham was bloody oblivious to everyone and everything if it had nothing to do with him, money or Anne. Was she surrounded by blind fuckers? Yes. Yes she was.

Still, no one spoke as Clara downed the rest of her drink… Again, this time not topping up but staring deeply into the empty glass, as if it could give her all the answers. As it turned out, Red wasn't look for answers, she was looking for courage as the young red-head reached out with a soft hand, Anne could tell it was shaking slightly, a little tremble of apprehension, and laid it on Vane's wrist, fingers wrapping around the limb as she stared at him eye to eye.

It was the first time Anne had ever seen Red touch someone willingly, let alone gently, her fingers may be tight around Vane's wrist, but Anne could tell it was not from repressed anger but a form of trying to anchor herself to the present, to Vane, to get through to him when she didn't think her words could. Anne herself had held onto Rackham the very same way as he led her out of the pub years ago, her bleeding husband behind her, a life of abuse, pain and regret left behind for a brighter future. A future with Rackham Anne wouldn't exchange for all the gold the world had to offer. Clara's next words, Anne would never forget, not for the words themselves, but for the meaning she had laced in every single one, meaning lost on everyone but Anne.

"I suppose worry I will not then, not if you say so... Do you? Is there really nothing I have to worry about?"

It seems to Anne, Clara's almost begging him to say it, to tell the truth, to come clean and tell her about Lowe and the deal. Anne finds herself mentally pushing the captain to do so, god knows she was against this deal from the very beginning. In Anne's life, once you earned her loyalty, like Clara had when she had taken cannon fire for Rackham, as well as the bonding time they had spent sparring and getting tit faced on the beach, you never lost that. And this, this bloody deal Guthrie had offered them was Anne betraying that trust. It didn't sit right with her, she didn't like it, it was against her nature. Yet again, Anne's idiotic clout of a captain just shakes his head, ruining the only chance he had at not digging the dagger into Reds back. Anne's eyes closed as she took in a deep breath from her nose. As she said, complete and utter bullshit.

Opening her eyes just in time, Anne saw Clara snatch her hand back, give a stiff nod with thin, grim lips, drop her cup onto the table and stood, walking towards the tents entrance, stopping just in time to speak to Vane over her shoulder, as if Anne and Rackham wasn't even there to begin with, with as much attention her and Vane paid to them. Anne oddly felt like looking away, as if the scene before her was too intimate to watch, despite the full clothes, short words and lack of anything really out of the realm of appropriate.

"Wasn't it you who told me that to work together, we would have to trust one another? Funny, I guess this is where the trail of trust ends for us, huh, Vane? If anyone needs me, I'll be at Noonan's getting fucking pissed."

And then Red was gone as fast as she had came. No one spoke, no one dared breath, all looking towards the entrance for a long while afterwards. It was Rackham who snapped to first, swirling in his chair to send a worried glance in Vane's direction.

"You don't think she knows about the deal do you? Clara's unpredictable at the best of times, if she knew we we're going to kill Lowe, given their history that has recently been brought to light, god knows what side she would fall on if given-"

Vane shook his head, cutting Rackham off.

"Of course not, we've only just been offered it, how would Clara know? No, best we keep this from her. That way it's a simple job. In and out, no debating, no hurt feelings and no regret, double-crossing or second guessing on her part."

Anne couldn't stop the laugh that broke forth even if she had tried to, which she hadn't, the least Vane deserved right now was being laughed at. Standing up herself, she made her way to the discarded bottle of rum and cup, pouring herself one and sipping. Anne had been through so much shit with Rackham, years of it, so much so she liked to think she had an idea of unwavering loyalty when she saw it and Bonny had seen more than unwavering loyalty pass between Vane and Clara.

Anne knew Clara and what she would and wouldn't do for Vane if push came to shove, and vice versa, even if Vane didn't want to admit it. He wasn't keeping this from Clara because he thought she would side with Lowe, even if that was what he told himself. Hide it as much as he tried and wanted to, Vane wasn't keeping this secret because of distrust or doubts of Clara, he was keeping it hush _for_ Clara. He was keeping this from Clara because he didn't want her to live with this, with Lowe's blood on her hands. He didn't want her hurt. What the idiot couldn't see was this would hurt her more. Clara's hasty exit after Vane's quick shot down was proof enough.

"For such a brilliant captain, you ain't half got shit for brains Vane, especially if you think Clara would turn her back on you now. Horse. Shit. For. Fucking. Brains."

Vane's nostrils flared, his lips thinned and anger practically melted off him and infected the air around him. Good. It was about time someone set the big bastard straight and if Anne was the only one with big balls to do so, well, she was up for the challenge.

"What the hell are you on about now Bonny?"

Anne scoffed and rose one eyebrow at her captain testily.

"If you ain't figured it out by now, do I really have to spell it out for you?"

Rackham's chair skidded out from underneath him as he stood, growing cautious after seeing the state of Vane after Clara stormed out, as well as seeing the vexed and daring state his dear Anne was in. This mixture, gun powder and naked flame was just waiting to explode if he didn't defuse it.

"Anne, dear-"

Anne brushed him off without a single glance.

"Fucking no. I've had enough of this bullshit. If the captain isn't willing to see what's in front of him and at stake, than I'll fucking make him see. Clara was given the option to stay with Flint, her father, or risk running back to you. She risked you. That Silver boy, every time he's around, he offers to run off with her to some sunny beach, I've fucking heard him myself when you told me to keep an eye on her in the beginning. And what does Clara do? She runs back to you. Instead of keeping the part of the Urca schedule to herself, selling it to Guthrie or Flint and leaving you to drift in the fucking wind like everyone else was willing to do, she got you your captaincy back, as well as a place on the hunt. She fucking took over the Ranger in the middle of the battle to stay there and save your sorry arse."

Rackham tried to cut her off once more but Anne was on a roll and she was far from finished.

"And you, you may have wanted her on side to piss in Flint's fucking ale, but if it had of been me or Rackham back in Noonan's when you first met us, trying to jam a pair of scissors through your chest, you would have caved our head into the floorboards. That's not even taking into account she held a gun to Guthrie's head and you haven't tried to kill her for it, neither all the other times she pissed you off or done something reckless."

Anne took a deep breath, sauntering closer to Vane the longer she spoke.

"And what has Eleanor done for you? Oh, right. She made you run off Blackbeard, one of your only true allies. She comes to you in the dead of the night, when no one can see her to fuck you, and then acts like it never happened. She tried to strip your captaincy from you and only ever calls you in when she has a problem she hasn't got the balls to fix herself. She uses you and drops you, and you can't even see it. And don't think for a second her asking you to kill Lowe is only for her own safety or the bullshit she fed you about the balance of Nassau and how Lowe is a danger to everyone, this is a fucking swipe at Red and we all know it! Somehow that blond bitch knows Lowe and Red have history and she's using it against Red and you… You're fucking allowing her to take that hit at one of our own crew-mates… To Red… A friend! Red is our friend and you're allowing her to try and take her out! For what? The little scraps she feeds you when she's feeling lonely and can find no one else? Whose next Vane, huh? Who will you kill or hurt on the orders of Guthrie when she bats her eyelashes at you? If you're willing to hurt Red this way because Guthrie said pretty please, well, I won't put anything passed you any more."

Now close enough to Vane, Anne braced her hands onto the table, fearlessly peering over and down to Vane, her voice gruff, leaving no room for any argument, even if Vane had fallen silent.

"You can pretend to yourself, to everyone outside this tent that doesn't know you, that nothing is there between you and Red but I see fucking through it even if you and Red can't. You do this Vane, you kill Lowe, whatever that's fucking happening between you and Red, you can bet you've burnt it to the fucking ground all for some blond fucker who wouldn't piss on you if you were on fire."

Vane blew like a volcano, jumping up and slamming his hands onto the table, teeth bared like a wild animal, the glare was molten and against everything, Anne found herself shrinking back slightly from the intensity of it.

"Get. Out."

"No-"

Rackham cut her off.

"Anne, please…"

Anne finally pulled back, shaking her head and backing up a few steps, heading towards the exit.

"Fine. Red had the right idea. I'm getting fucking drunk too. Fetch me when our illustrious captain finally gets his head out of his arse-"

Vane erupted once more, knocking the bottle across the table and tent with a swing of his arm, the sound of breaking glass shattering all pretense of composure he or Anne had pretended to have.

"Get out!"

Rackham scooped up Anne's arm and dragged her from the tent, before either Vane could swing or shoot and before Anne could unsheathe the sword she had been fiddling with. They were both long gone when Vane flipped the table in one fell swoop, falling into his seat tiredly and scrubbing at his face, his gaze landing on the wrist Clara had held. They were long gone before he finished the bottle of rum and scoffed at himself, storming out of his tent, heading towards Noonan's and planning on tracking down the pain in his arse that went by the name of Clara Flint.

Anne was right about one thing, him and Clara needed to talk.

* * *

 **NEXT CHAPTER PREVIEW:**

Clara downed the rest of her drink, bodies of Noonan's visitors pressing in from the left and right of her, giving her a false sense of security.

"I think it's about time we talked, don't you?"

The glass stopped half way to her lips, the thunk of it landing on the wooden bar muted by the chatting patrons of Noonan's. Clara turned around and came face to face with the one person she had been trying to avoid. Ned Lowe. She smiled brightly as she saw the men surrounding him like a miniature Vanguard protecting their Machiavellian prince. Can't a girl drown her sorrows in peace around here?

"And you need your men for that Lowe? Tch. If you wanted an even fight, you should have brought more men."

* * *

 **A.N:**

I know, I know, I'm the worst fanfic author in the word, please except my sincerest apologies. I know last chapter I said this one would be out in a week, and it's been about two, three months but well, I've actually been really ill. Epilepsy and a chest infection/flu apparently don't mix very well XD.

But I am getting over it, just chugging through the last dregs of it now and updates should (Emphasis on the should here) be back to normal! Just in time for season 4 of black sails! (Am I the only one sooo bloody excited for this? I can't be, can I?)

There's nothing much to say this chapter, only for some reason, when I wrote Anne Bonny, she turned into the biggest Vane/Clara shipper out there, but sorry if you don't like it I do, so it stays XD Plus, Clara and Vane are blind, someone had to point it out to them and who else has big enough balls to take on both but Anne Bonny?

 **Next chapter** we obviously have more **Ned Lowe** , but we also get **Silver, Vane, Flint and Miranda** , so don't worry things are starting to come together now, slowly but surely. I'm still feeling a little ill, so I'm sorry but I'll answer all questions next chapter.

This should be updated either late this week, or early next. Good news for those who read **Axes and Arrows,** the next chapter should be out this week, Thursday, Friday, so keep a look out if it's your sort of thing!

Once again, I'm so, so sorry for the long wait but there really wasn't much I could do, just know I'll never abandon this fic, even when the show is over. Thank you all to those who favourited, followed and Reviewed, you guys are amazing, really, while I've been ill, the reviews have kept me smiling, it really means a lot.

As always, drop a review, they keep me typing! P.S, some lovely reviewer P.M'd me with ship names and honestly, they're the best. Let me know what ship you guys are shipping if you leave a review. #Clane vs #Slira vs #StayWithBoth! Until next time, stay beautiful! ~ _GoWithTheFlo20_


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